Srom  f  ^e  &i6rart  of 

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3ubge  ^amuef  (gtiffer  QSrecHinribge 

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^dmuef  (gtiffer  (jSrecftinribge  feon^ 

fo  f ^e  &i6raifi?  of 

(Princeton  C^eofo^icaf  ^eminarg 


sec 


inf 


THE 


LIFE 


POSTHUMOUS    WRITINGS 


WILLIAM  COWPERy  Esq, 


THE 


LIFE 


POSTHUMOUS  WRITINGS 

WILLIAM  COWPER,  ESQ. 

WITH  AN 

INTRODUCTORY  LETTER 

TO   THE 

RIGHT  HONOURABLE  EARL  COWPER. 
BY  AVILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESQ. 


"  Obversatur  oculis  ille  vir,  quo  neminem  setas  nostra  graviorem,  sanc- 
"  tiorem,  subtiliorem  denique  tulit :  quern  ego  quum  ex  admiratione  dili- 
"  gere  coepissem,  quod  evenire  contra  solet,  magis  admiratus  sum,  post- 
"  quam  penitus  inspexi.  Inspexi  enim  penitus :  nihil  a  me  ille  secretum, 
*  non  joculare,  non  serium,  non  triste,  non  Ixtum." 

Plinii  Epist.  Lib.  iv.  Ep.  17- 

VOL.   L 


NEW-VORK: 


PnlNTED  AND   SOLD   BY  T.  AND  J.  SWORDS, 

Nu.  160  Tearl-Street. 

ISOS. 


CONTENTS 

OF    THE 

FIRST    VOLUME. 


Introductory  Letter. 

The  Life,  Part  the  First — the  Family,  Birth,  and  first  Residence  of  Cow- 
per — his  Eulogy  on  the  Tenderness  of  his  Mother,  pages  1,  2.  Her 
Portrait — her  Epitaph  by  her  Niece,  2,  3.  The  Schools  that  Cowper 
attended — his  Sufferings  in  Childhood,  4,  5,  6.  Leaves  Westminster, 
and  is  stationed  in  the  House  of  an  Attorney,  6,  7.  Verses  on  his  early 
Afflictions,  7,  8.  Setdes  in  the  Inner  Temple — his  Acquaintance  with 
eminent  Authors,  8.  His  Epistle  to  Lloyd,  9.  His  Translations  in 
Duncomhe's  Horace,  11.  His  own  Account  of  his  early  Life,  11. 
Stanzas  on  reading  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  12.  Verses  written  at  Bath, 
1748 — his  Nomination  to  the  Office  of  Reading  Clerk  in  the  House  of 
Lords,  13,  14.  His  extreme  dread  of  appearing  in  Public,  15.  His 
Healtli  deranged — his  Retirement  to  the  House  of  Dr.  Cotton,  at  St. 
Alban's,  15.  His  Recovery,  16.  He  settles  at  Huntingdon,  to  be  near 
his  Brother  residing  in  Cambridge,  17.  The  two  Brothers  employed 
on  a  Translation  of  Voltaire's  Henriade,  17.  The  Origin  of  Cowper's 
Acquaiiitance  with  the  Family  of  Unwin,  18.  He  becomes  a  Part  of 
that  Family,  19.  His  early  Friendship  with  Lord  Thurlow  and  Joseph 
Hill,  Esq.  19. 


Letter    1 

To  Joseph  Hill, 

Esq. 

June      24, 

1765 

Page    20 

2 

To  Major  Cowper 

Oct.      18, 

1765 

21 

o 

To  Joseph  Hill, 

Esq. 

Oct.      25, 

1765 

22 

4 

To  Mrs.  Cowper 

March  11, 

1766 

23 

5 

To  the  same 

April      4, 

1766 

24 

6 

To  the  same 

April    17, 

1766 

25 

7 

To  the  same 

April    18, 

1766 

27 

8 

To  the  same 

Sept.      3, 

1766 

29 

9 

To  the  same 

Oct.      20, 

1766 

31 

10 

To  the  same 

March  11, 

1767 

32 

11 

To  the  same 

March  14, 

1767 

34 

12 

To  the  same 

April     3, 

1767 

ib. 

13 

To  the  same 

July      13, 

1767 

36 

14 

To  Joseph  Hill, 

Esq. 

July      16, 

1767 

ib. 

The  Origin  of  Cowper's  Acquaintance  with  the  Rev.  Mr.  Newton,  37- 
His  Removal  with  Mrs.  Unwin,  on  the  Death  of  her  Husband,  to  Ol- 
ney,  in  Buckinghamshire — his  Devotion  and  Charity  in  his  new  Resi- 
dence, 37- 


vi  CONTENTS. 

Letter  15    To  Joseph  Hill,  Esq.  June      16,1768         Page    38 

16     To  the  same  1769  ib. 

A  Poem  in  Memory  of  John  Thornton,  Esq.  39.     Cowper's  Beneficence 

to  a  Necessitous  Child,  40.     Composes  a  Series  of  Hymns,  41. 
Letter  17    To  Mrs.  Cowper  without  date  Page    41 

18     To  the  same  Aug.     31,  1769  42 

Cowper  is  hurried  to  Cambridge  by  the  dangerous  Illness  of  his  Brother,  43 
Letter  19     To  Mrs.  Cowper  March    5,  1770  Page    44 

A  brief  Account  of  the  Rev.  John  Cowper,  who  died  March  20,  1770— 

and  the  Tribute  paid  to  his  Memory  by  his  Brother  the  Poet,  44,  45. 
Letter  20     To  Joseph  HiU,  Esq.  ■      May       8,  1770  Page    46 

21  To  Mrs.  Cowper  June       7,  1770  47 

22  To  Joseph  Hill,  Esq.  Sept.     25,  1770  49 
The  Collection  of  the  Olney  Hymns  interrupted  by  the  Illness  of  Cowper, 

49.     His  long  and  severe  Depression — his  tame  Hares  one  of  his  first 
Amusements  on  his  revival,  50,  51,  52. 


Letter  23 

To  Joseph  Hill,  Esq. 

May 

6, 

1780 

Page     53 

24 

To  Mrs.  Cowper  ' 

May 

10, 

1780 

54, 

25 

To  Joseph  HUl,  Esq. 

July 

8, 

1780 

ib. 

26 

To  Mrs.  Cowper 

July 

20, 

1780 

55 

27 

To  the  same 

Aug. 

31, 

1780 

56 

28 

To  Joseph  Hill,  Esq. 

Dec. 

25, 

1780 

57 

29 

To  the  same 

Feb. 

15, 

1781 

59 

30 

To  the  same 

May 

9, 

1781 

60 

31 

To  Mrs.  Cowper 

Oct. 

19, 

1781 

61 

The  Publication  of  his  first  Volume — not  immediately  successful— probable 
Reasons  of  the  Neglect  that  it  seemed  for  some  Time  to  experience — 
an  E.\ample  of  the  Poet's  amiable  Ingenuousness  in  speaking  of  him- 
self— the  various  kinds  of  Excellence  in  liis  first  Volume,  62  to  65. 


PART  THE  SECOND. 

The   Origin  of   Cowper's  Acquaintance  with   Lady   Austin — a  Poetical 
Epistle  to  that  Lady,  67,  68.     A  Billet  to  the  same   Lady,  and  three 
Songs,  written  for  her  Harpsichord,  71  to  74.     She  relates  to  Cowper 
the  Story  of  John  Gilpin,  75. 
Letter  32     To  Joseph  Hill,  Esq.  Feb.      13,  1783         Page    76 

23     To  the  same,  enclosing  a  Let- 
ter from  Benjamin  Franklin  Feb.      20,1783  ib. 

34  To  the  same  without  date  77 

35  To  the  same  May     26,  1783  78 
56     To  the  same                                 Oct.      20,  1783                     ib. 

The  Origin  of  the  Task,  79.  Extracts  from  Cowper's  Letters  to  the  Rev. 
Ml-.  Bull,  relating  to  the  Progress  of  that  Poem,  79,  80.  A  sudden 
end  of  the  Poet's  Intercourse  v/ith  Lady  Austin,  81. 


CONTENTS.  vii 

Letter  37     To  Joseph  Hill,  Esq.  Sept.     11,  1784         Page    81 

38  To  the  same  without  date  82 

39  To  tlie  same  June      25,  1785  83 
The  Publication  of  Cowper's  second  Volume,  in  1785,  leads  to  a  renewal 

of  his  Correspondence  with  his  Relation,  I.ady  Hesketh,  83. 


Letter  40 

To  Lady  Hesketh 

Oct. 

12, 

1785 

Page 

•     84 

41 

To  the  same 

Nov. 

9, 

1785 

85 

42 

To  the  same 

without  date 

88 

43 

To  the  same 

Dec. 

24, 

1785 

89 

44 

To  the  same 

Jan. 

10, 

,  1786 

90 

45 

To  the  same 

Jan. 

31, 

1786 

91 

46 

To  the  same 

Feb. 

9, 

,  1785 

93 

47 

To  the  same 

Feb. 

11, 

1786 

94 

48 

To  the  same 

Feb. 

19, 

1786 

95 

49 

To  the  same 

March    6, 

1786 

98 

50 

To  Joseph  Hill,  Esq. 

April 

5, 

1786 

100 

51 

To  Lady  Hesketh 

April 

17, 

1786 

101 

52 

To  the  same 

April 

24, 

1786 

103 

5^ 

To  the  same 

May 

8, 

1786 

104 

54 

To  the  same 

May 

15, 

1786 

107 

55 

To  the  same 

May 

25, 

1786 

110 

56 

To  the  same 

May 

29, 

1786 

112 

57 

To  the  same 

June 

4, 

1786 

114 

58 

To  Joseph  Hill,  Esq. 

June 

9, 

1786 

116 

59 

To  the  same 

June 

9, 

1786 

117 

60 

To  the  same 

Oct. 

6, 

1786 

ib. 

Cowper  receives   at  Olney  his  Relation  Lady 

Hesketh,  118. 

E.xtracts 

from  his  Letters  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Bull — Poem 

on  Friendship, 

from  119 

to  128. 

Extract  from  the  Rev.  Mr.  Newton's  ] 

Memoirs  of  Cowper, 

129. 

The  Removal  of  Mrs.  Unwin  and  Cowper  fi 

rom 

the  To\v'n 

.  of  Olney 

to  the  Village  of  Weston,  130. 

Letter  61 

To  Lady  Hesketh 

Nov. 

26, 

1786 

Page 

130 

62 

To  the  same 

Dec. 

4, 

1786 

131 

63 

To  the  same 

Dec. 

9, 

1786 

133 

64 

To  Joseph  Hill,  Esq. 

Dec. 

9, 

1786 

ib. 

65 

To  Lady  Hesketh 

Dec. 

21, 

1786 

134 

66 

To  the  same 

Jan. 

8, 

1787 

135 

67 

To  the  same 

Jan. 

8, 

1787 

136 

68 

To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

July 

24, 

1787 

137 

69 

To  the  same 

Aug. 

27, 

1787 

138 

70 

To  Lady  Hesketh 

Aug. 

30, 

1787 

139 

71 

To  the  same 

Sept. 

4, 

1787 

140 

72 

To  the  same 

Sept. 

15, 

1787 

141 

73 

To  the  same 

Sept. 

29, 

1787 

142 

74> 

To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

Oct. 

19, 

1787 

143 

75 

To  Lady  Hesketh 

Nov. 

10, 

1787 

ib. 

viii 

CONTENTS. 

The  retired  Cat,  an  occasional  Poem,  page  144, 

Letter  76 

To  Joseph  Hill,  Esq. 

Nov. 

16, 

1787 

Page    147 

77 

To  Lady  Hesketh 

Nov. 

27, 

1787 

148 

78 

To  the  same 

Dec. 

4, 

1787 

149 

79 

To  the  same 

Dec. 

10, 

1787 

150 

80 

To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

Dec. 

13, 

1787 

151 

81 

To  Lady  Hesketh 

Jan. 

1, 

1788 

153 

82 

To  the  same 

Jan. 

19, 

1788 

154 

83 

To  the  same 

Jan. 

30, 

1788 

155 

84 

To  the  same 

Feb. 

1, 

1788 

156 

85 

To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

Feb. 

14, 

1788 

157 

85 

To  Lady  Hesketh 

Feb. 

16, 

1788 

159 

87 

To  the  same 

Feb. 

22, 

1788 

160 

88 

To  the  same 

March    3, 

1788 

162 

89 

To  the  same 

March  12, 

1788 

163 

90 

To  General  Cowper 

Dec. 

13, 

1787 

164 

The  Morning  Dream,  a  ] 

Ballad, 

page 

■  164. 

91 

To  Samiiel  Rose,  Esq. 

March  29, 

1788 

166 

92 

To  Lady  Hesketh 

March  31, 

1788 

167 

93 

To  Joseph  Hill,  Esq. 

May 

8, 

1788 

168 

94 

To  Lady  Hesketh 

May 

12, 

1788 

ib. 

95 

To  Joseph  Hill,  Esq. 

May 

24, 

1788 

169 

96 

To  Lady  Hesketh 

May 

27, 

1788 

170 

97 

To  the  same 

June 

j> 

1788 

171 

98 

To  Joseph  Hill,  Esq. 

June 

8, 

1788 

172 

99 

To  Lady  Hesketh 

June 

10, 

1788 

173 

100 

To  the  same 

June 

15, 

1788 

ib. 

101 

To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

June 

23, 

1788 

174 

102 

To  Lady  Hesketh 

JiJy 

28, 

1788 

176 

103 

To  the  same 

Aug. 

9, 

1788 

177 

104 

To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

Aug. 

18, 

1788 

'b. 

105 

To  the  same 

Sept. 

11, 

1788 

179 

Two  Poems  on  a  favourite 

Spaniel 

,  page  180. 

105 

To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

Sept. 

25, 

1788 

181 

107 

To  the  same 

Nov. 

30, 

1788 

182 

108 

To  the  same 

Jan. 

19, 

1789 

183 

109 

To  the  same 

Jan. 

24, 

1789 

184 

110 

To  the  same 

M.iy 

20, 

1789 

ib. 

A  Poem  on  the  Queen's  Visit  to  Londor 

!,  the  IS! 

-ight 

of  March  17,  1789, 

page  185 

Letter  111 

To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

June 

5, 

1789 

Page   188 

112 

To  the  same 

June 

20, 

1789 

ib. 

113 

To  Mrs.  Throckmorton 

Julv 

18, 

1789 

189 

114 

To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

Julv 

23, 

1789 

190 

115 

To  the  same 

Aug. 

8, 

1789 

191 

iir. 

To  the  same 

Sept. 

24, 

1789 

i!>. 

CONTENTS. 


Letter  117  To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

118  To  Joseph  Hill,  Esq. 

119  To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

120  To  Lady  Hesketh 

121  To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

122  To  Lady  Hesketh 
Verses  to  Mrs.  Throckmorton,   on  her 

Ode,  Ad  Librum  sun 

Letter  123  To  Lady  Hesketh 

124  To  Mrs.  Bodham 

125  To  John  Johnson,  Esq. 

126  To  Lady  Hesketh 

127  To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

128  To  Mrs.  Throckmorton 

129  To  Lady  Hesketh 

130  To  John  Johnson,  Esq. 

131  To  the  same 

132  To  Lady  Hesketh, 

133  To  the  same 

134  To  Mrs.  Throckmorton 

135  To  Lady  Hesketh 

136  To  the  same 

137  To  John  Johnson,  Esq. 

138  To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

139  To  Mrs.  Bodham 

140  To  Lady  Hesketh 

141  To  John  Johnson,  Esq. 

142  To  the  same 

143  To  Mrs.  Bodham 

144  To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

145  To  Mrs.  Bodham 

146  To  John  Johnson,  Esq. 

147  To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

148  To  John  Johnson,  Esq. 

149  To  the  same 

150  To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

151  To  Lady  Hesketh 

152  To  John  Johnson,  Esq. 

153  To  Joseph  Hill,  Esq. 

154  To  the  same 

155  To  John  Johnson,  Esq. 

156  To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

157  To  Mrs.  Throckmorton 

158  To  John  Johnson,  Esq. 

159  To  Samuel  Rose.  Esq. 

160  To  John  Johnson,  Esq. 
VOL,  I.  A 


Sept. 

11, 

1788 

Page  192 

Dec. 

18, 

1789 

193 

Jan. 

3, 

1790 

ib. 

Jan. 

23, 

1790 

194 

Feb. 

2, 

1790 

195 

Feb. 

9, 

1790 

196 

beautiful 

1  Transcript 

of  Horace's 

im,  page 

197 

Feb. 

26, 

1790 

Page  197 

Feb. 

27, 

1790 

198 

Feb. 

28, 

1790 

200 

March    8, 

1790 

202 

March  11, 

1790 

ib. 

March  21, 

1790 

203 

INIarch  22, 

1790 

204 

March  23, 

1790 

205 

April 

17, 

1790 

206 

April 

19, 

1890 

208 

April 

30, 

1790 

ib. 

May 

10, 

1790 

209 

May 

28, 

1790 

210 

June 

•Ji 

1790 

ib. 

June 

7, 

1790 

211 

June 

8, 

1790 

212 

June 

29, 

1790 

213 

July 

7, 

1790 

214 

July 

8, 

1790 

215 

July 

31, 

1790 

216 

Sept. 

9, 

1790 

ib. 

Sept. 

13, 

1790 

217 

Nov. 

21, 

1790 

2J8 

Nov. 

26, 

1790 

219 

Nov. 

30, 

1790 

220 

Dec. 

18, 

1790 

ib. 

Jan. 

21, 

1791 

221 

Feb. 

5, 

1791 

222 

Feb. 

13, 

1791 

ib. 

Feb. 

27, 

1791 

223 

March    6, 

1791 

224 

March  10, 

1791 

ib. 

March  19, 

1791 

ib- 

March  24, 

1791 

225 

April 

1, 

1791 

226 

April 

6, 

1791 

ib. 

April 

29, 

1791 

127 

May 

23, 

1791 

ib. 

X  CONTENTS. 

The  Judgment  of  the  Poets,  an  occasional  Poem,  page  228. 
Letter  161     To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq.  June    15,  1791         Page  229 

The  first  Publication  of  Covvper's  Homer — the  Pleasure  he  derived  from 

that  Work — Extract  of  a  Letter  on  the  Subject  to  his  Kinsman,  of 

Norfolk,  page  230,  to  the  end  of  the  Volume. 


DIRECTIONS  TO  THE  BINDER. 

The  Portrait  of  Cowper  as  a  Frontispiece  to  Vol.  I. 
The  Portrait  of  Mrs.  Cowper  to  face  Page  3,  Vol.  I. 


llW 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTER 


Right  Honourable  Earl  COWPER. 

Y  OUR  family,  my  Lord,  our  country  itself,  and  the  whole 
literary  world,  sustained  such  a  loss  in  the  death  of  that 
amiable  man  and  enchanting  author  who  forms  the  subject 
of  these  volumes,  as  inspired  the  friends  of  genius  and  virtue 
with  universal  concern.  It  soon  became  a  general  wish,  that 
some  authentic  and  copious  memorial  of  a  character  so  highly 
interesting  should  be  produced  with  all  becoming  dispatch ; 
not  only  to  render  due  honour  to  the  dead,  but  to  alleviate 
the  regret  of  a  nation  taking  a  just  and  liberal  pride  in  the 
reputation  of  a  poet,  who  had  obtained  and  deserved  her 
applause,  her  esteem,  her  affection.  If  this  laudable  wish 
was  very  sensibly  felt  by  the  public  at  large,  it  glowed  with 
peculiar  warmth  and  eagerness  in  the  bosom  of  the  few  who 
had  been  so  fortunate  as  to  enjoy  an  intimacy  with  Cowper 
in  some  vmclouded  periods  of  his  life,  and  who  knew,  from 
such  an  intimacy,  that  a  lively  sweetness  and  sanctity  of 
spirit  were  as  truly  the  characteristics  of  his  social  enjoy- 
ments, as  they  arc  allowed  to  constitute  a  principal  charm  in 
his  poetical  productions. — It  has  justly  been  regarded  as  a 
signal  blessing,  to  have  possessed  the  perfect  esteem  and 
confidence  of  such  a  man :  and  not  long  after  his  decease, 
one  of  his  particular  friends  presumed  to  suggest  to  an  ac- 
complished lady,  nearly  related  both  to  him  and  to  your 
Lordship,  that  she  herself  might  be  the  biographer  the  most 
worthy  of  the  poet.  The  long  intimacy  and  correspondence 
which  she  enjoved  with  him,  from  their  lively  hours  of  in- 


xii  INTRODUCTORY  LETTER. 

fantile  friendship  to   the  dark   evening  of  his  wonderfully 
chequered  life ;  her  cultivated  and  affectionate  mind,  which 
led  her  to  take  peculiar  delight  and  interest  in  the  merit 
and  the  reputation  of  his  writings  ;  and,  lastly,  that  generous 
attachment  to  her  afflicted  relation  which   induced  her  to 
watch  over  his  disoi'dered  health,  in   a  period  of  its  most 
calamitous  depression ; — these  circumstances,  united,  seemed 
to  render  it  desirable  that  she  should  assume  the  office  of 
Cowper's  biographer;  having  such  advantages  for  the  perfect 
execution  of  that  very  delicate  office  as,  perhaps,  no  other 
memorialist  could  possess  in  an  equal  degree.     For  the  in- 
terest of  literature,  and  for  the  honour  of  many  poets,  whose 
memories  have  suffered  from  some  biographers  of  a  very 
different  description,  we  may  wish  that  the  extensive  series 
of  poetical  biography  had  been  frequently  enriched  by  the 
memoirs  of  such  remembrancers  as  feel  only  the  influence 
of  tenderness  and  truth.     Some  poets,    indeed,   of  recent 
times,   have  been  happy  in  this  most  desirable  advantage. 
The  Scottish  favourite  of  nature,  the  tender  and  impetuous 
Burns,  has  found,  in  Dr.  Currie,    an  ingenuous,   eloquent, 
affectionate  biographer;  and  in  a  lady  also  (whose  memoir 
of  her  friend,  the  bard,  is  very  properly  annexed  to  his  life) 
a  zealous  and  graceful  advocate,  singularly  happy  in  vindi- 
cating his  character  from   invidious  detraction.     We  may 
observe,  to  the  honour  of  Scotland,  that  her  national  enthu- 
siasm has,  for  some  years,  been  very  laudably  exerted  in 
cherishing    the    memory   of   her   departed    poets. — But   to 
return  to  the  lady  who  gave  rise  to  this  remark.     The  na- 
tural diffidence  of  her  sex,  uniting  with  extreme  delicacy  of 
health,  induced  her,  eager  as  she  is  to  promote  the  celebrity 
of  her  deceased  relation,  to  shrink  from  the  idea  of  submit- 
ting herself,  as  an  author,  to  the  formidable  eye  of  the  public. 
Her  knowledge  of  the  very  cordial  regard  wi^h  which  Cowper 
has  honoured   me,  as  one  of  his  most  confidential   friends, 
led  her  to  request  that  she  might  assign  to  me  that  arduous 
office,  which  she  candidly  confessed  she  had  not  the  resolu- 
tion to  assume.     She  confided  to  my  care  such  materials  for 
the  work  in  question,  as  her  affinity  to  the  deceased  had 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTER.  xUi 

thrown  into  her  hands.  In  receiving  a  collection  of  many- 
private  letters,  and  of  several  posthumous  little  poems,  in 
the  vi'ell-known  characters  of  that  beloved  correspondent,  at 
the  sight  of  whose  hand  I  have  often  exulted,  I  felt  the 
blended  emotions  of  melancholy  regret,  and  of  awful  plea- 
sure. Yes,  I  was  pleased  that  these  aflFecting  papers  were 
entrusted  to  my  care,  because  some  incidents  induce  me  to 
believe  that,  if  their  revered  author  had  been  solicited  to 
appoint  a  biographer  for  himself,  he  would  have  assigned  to 
me  this  honourable  task.  Yet,  honourable  as  I  considered  it, 
I  was  perfectly  aware  of  the  difficulties  and  the  dangers  at- 
tending it.  One  danger,  indeed,  appeared  to  me  of  such  a 
nature  as  to  require  perpetual  caution  as  I  advanced :  I 
mean  the  danger  of  being  led,  in  writing  as  the  biographer 
of  my  friend,  to  speak  infinitely  too  much  of  myself.  To 
avoid  the  offensive  failing  of  egotism,  I  had  resolved,  at  first, 
to  make  no  inconsiderable  sacrifice,  and  to  suppress,  in  his 
letters,  every  particle  of  praise  bestowed  upon  myself.  I 
soon  found  it  impossible  to  do  so  without  injuring  the  tender 
and  generous  spirit  of  my  friend.  I  have,  therefore,  sufilered 
many  expressions  of  his  affectionate  partiality  towards  me  to 
appear,  at  the  hazard  of  being  censured  for  inordinate  vanity. 
To  obviate  such  a  censure,  I  will  only  say,  that  I  have  en- 
tleavoured  to  execute  what  I  regard  as  a  mournful  duty,  as 
if  I  were  under  the  immediate  and  visible  direction  of  the 
most  pure,  the  most  truly  modest,  and  the  most  gracefully 
virtuous  mind,  that  I  had  ever  the  happiness  of  knowing  in 
the  form  of  a  manly  friend.  It  is  certainly  my  wish  that 
these  volumes  may  obtain  the  entire  approbation  of  the 
world ;  but  it  is  infinitely  more  my  desire  and  ambition  to 
render  them  exactly  such  as  I  think  most  likely  to  gratify 
the  conscious  spirit  of  Cowper  himself  in  a  superior  exist- 
ence. The  person  who  recommended  it  to  his  female  relation 
to  continue  her  exemplary  regard  to  the  poet,  by  appearing 
as  his  biographer,  advised  her  to  relate  the  particulars  of  his 
life  in  the  form  of  letters  addressed  to  your  Lordship.  He 
cited,  on  the  occasion,  a  striking  passage  from  the  memoirs 
of  Gibbon,  in  which  that  great  historian  pnys  a  just  and  a 


xiv  INTRODUCTORY  LETTER. 

splendid  compliment  to  one  of  the  early  English  poets,  who, 
in  the   tenderness  and  purity  of  his  heart,  and  in  the  vivid 
powers  of  description,  may  be  thought  to  resemble  Cowper. 
The  passage  I  allude  to  is  this:  "  The  nobility  of  the  Spen- 
cers  has  been   illustrated  and  enriched  by  the  trophies  of 
Marlborough  ;  but  T  exhort  them  to  consider  the  Fairy  Queen 
as  the  most  precious  jewel  of  their  coronet."     If  this  lively 
metaphor  is  just  in  every  point  of  view,  we  inay  regard  The 
Task  as  a  jewel  of  pre-eminent  lustre  in  the  coronet  belong- 
iiig  to  the  noble  family  of  Cowper.     Under  the  influence  of 
this  idea,   allow  me,  my  Lord,  to  address  to  you  such  me- 
moirs of  your  admirable  relation,  as  my  own  intimacy  with 
him,  and  the  kindness  of  those  who  knew   and  loved  him 
most  truly,  have  enabled  me  to  compose.      I  will  tell  you, 
with  perfect  sincerity,  all  my  motives  for  addressing  them  to 
your  Lordship.     First,  I  flatter  myself  it  may  be  a  pleasing, 
and,  permit  me  to  say,  not  an  unuseful  occupation  to  an  in- 
g-envious  young  nobleman,  to  trace  the  steps  by  which  a  re- 
tired man,  of  the  most  diffident  modesty,  whose  private  vir- 
tues did  honour  to  his  name,   arose  to  peculiar  celebrity. 
iVIy  second  motive  is,  I  ov/n,  of  a  more  selfish  nature;  for  I 
amt  persuaded,  that,  in  addressing  my  v/ork  to  you,  I  give 
the  public  a  satisfactory  pledge  for  the  authenticity  of  my 
materials.     I  \n\\  not  pretend  to  say  that  I  hold  it  in  the 
power  of  any  title,  or  affinity,  to  reflect  an  additional  lustre 
on  the  memory  of  the  departed  poet :  for  I  think  so  highly 
of  poetical  distinction,  when  that  distinction  is  pre-eminently 
obtained  by  genius,  piety,  and  benevolence,  that  all  common 
honours  appear  to  be  eclipsed  by  a  splendour  more  forcible 
and  extensive.     Great  poets,  my  Lord,  and  that  I  may  speak 
of  thcni  as  they  deserve,  let  me  say,  in  the  words  of  Horace, 

Frimum  me  illorum,  dederim  qulbus  esse  Poetas, 
Excerpam  numero — 

Great  poets  have  generally  united  in  their  destiny  those  ex- 
tremes of  good  and  evil,  which  liomer,  their  immortal  pre- 
sident, assigns  to  the  bard  he  describes,  and  v/hich  he  ex- 
emplified himself  in  his  own  person. — Their  lives  have  been 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTER.  xv 

frequently  chequered  by  the  darkest  shades  of  calamity ;  but 
their  personal  infelicities  are  nobly  compensated  by  the  pre- 
valence and  the  extent  of  their  renown.  To  set  this  in  the 
most  striking  point  of  view,  allow  me  to  compare  poetical 
celebrity  with  the  fame  acquired  by  the  exertion  of  different 
mental  powers  in  the  highest  department  of  civil  life.  The 
Lord  Chancellors  of  England  may  be  justly  regarded  among 
the  personages  of  the  modern  world,  peculiarly  exalted  by 
intellectual  endowments :  with  two  of  these  illustrious  cha- 
racters, the  poet,  whose  life  I  have  endeavoured  to  delineate, 
was  in  some  measure  connected;  being  related  to  one,  the 
immediate  ancestor  of  your  Lordship,  and  being  intimate, 
in  early  life,  with  a  Chancellor  of  the  present  reign,  whose 
elevation  to  that  dignity  he  has  recorded  in  rhyine.  Much 
respect  is  due  to  the  legal  names  of  Cowper,  and  of  Thurlow. 
Knowledge,  eloquence,  and  political  importance,  conspired 
to  aggrandize  the  men  who  added  those  names  to  the  list  of 
English  nobility:  yet,  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  centuries,  they 
.will  shine  only  like  very  distant  constellations,  merely  visi- 
ble in  the  vast  expanse  of  history  !  But,  at  that  time,  the 
poet  of  whom  I  speak,  will  continue  to  sparkle  in  the  eyes 
of  all  men,  like  the  radiant  star  of  the  evening,  perpetually 
hailed  by  the  voice  of  gratitude,  affection,  and  delight.  There 
is  a  principle  of  unperishablc  vitality  (if  I  may  use  such  an 
expression)  in  the  compositions  of  Cowper,  which  must  en- 
sure to  them  in  future  ages,  what  we  have  seen  them  so 
happily  acquire  and  maintain  in  the  present — universal  admi- 
ration and  love !  His  poetry  is  to  the  heart  and  the  fancy, 
what  the  moral  essays  of  Bacon  are  to  the  understanding,  a 
never-cloying  feast ! 

"  As  if  increase  of  appetite  had  grown 
"  By  what  it  fed  on." 

Like  them  it  comes  "  home  to  the  business  and  bosom  of 
every  man ;"  by  possessing  the  rare  and  double  talent  to  fami- 
liarize and  endear  the  most  awful  subjects,  and  to  dignify 
the  most  familiar,  the  poet  naturally  becomes  a  favourite 
with  readers  of  every  description.     His  works  must  interest 


xvi  INTRODUCTORY  LETTER. 

every  nation  under  heaven,  where  his  sentiments  are  under- 
stood, and  where  the  feelings  of  humanity  prevail.  Yet 
their  author  is  eminently  an  EngUshman,  in  the  noblest 
sense  of  that  honourable  appellation.  He  loved  the  consti- 
tution; he  revered  the  I'eligion  of  his  country;  he  was  ten- 
derly, and  generously  alive  to  her  real  interest  and  honour; 
and  perhaps  of  her  many  admirable  poets,  not  one  has 
touched  her  foibles,  and  celebrated  her  perfections,  with  a 
spirit  so  truly  filial. — But  I  perceive  that  I  am  in  danger  of 
going  far  beyond  my  design  in  this  introductory  letter,  for  it 
was  my  intention  not  to  enter  into  the  merits  of  his  character 
here,  but  to  inform  you  in  what  manner  I  wish  to  make  that 
character  display  itself  to  my  readers,  as  far  as  possible,  in 
his  own  most  interesting  language. — Perhaps  no  man  ever 
possessed  the  powers  of  description  in  a  higher  degree,  both 
in  verse  and  prose.  By  weaving  into  the  texture  of  these 
Memoirs,  an  extensive  selection  of  his  private  letters,  and 
several  of  his  posthumous  poems,  I  trust  that  a  faithful  re- 
presentation of  him  has  been  formed,  where  the  most  strik- 
ing features  will  appear  the  work  of  his  own  inimitable  hand. 
The  result  of  the  whole  production  will,  I  am  confident, 
establish  one  most  satisfactory  truth,  interesting  to  society 
in  general,  and  to  your  Lordship  in  particular:  the  truth  I 
mean  is  expressed  in  the  final  verse  of  an  epitaph,  which 
the  hand  of  friendship  inscribed  to  your  excellent  relation: 

"  His  virtues  form'd  the  magic  of  his  song." 

May  the  affectionate  zeal  with  which  I  have  endeavoured 
to  render  all  the  justice  in  my  power  to  his  variety  of  merit, 
atone  for  whatever  deficiencies  may  be  found  in  this  imper- 
fect attempt,  and  lead  both  your  Lordship  and  our  Country 
to  honour  with  some  degree  of  approbation, 

Your  very  faithful  servant, 

WILLIAM  HAYLEY. 


THE 

LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

PART  THE  FIRST. 

JNGENIUM  PROBITAS,  ARTEMQUE  MODESTJA  VJNCIT. 

X  HE  family  of  Cowper  appears  to  have  held,  for  several  cen- 
turies, a  respectable  rank  among  the  merchants  and  gentry  of  Eng- 
land. We  learn  from  the  life  of  the  first  Earl  Cowper,  in  the  Bio- 
graphia  Britannica,  that  his  ancestors  were  inhabitants  of  Sussex, 
in  the  reign  of  Edward  the  Fourth.  The  name  is  found  repeatedly 
among  the  Sheriifs  of  London ;  and  John  Cowper,  who  resided  as 
a  country  gentleman  in  Kent,  was  created  a  Baronet  by  King 
Charles  the  First,  in  1641.  But  the  family  rose  to  higher  distinc- 
tion in  the  beginning  of  the  last  century,  by  the  remarkable  cir- 
cumstance of  producing  two  brothers,  who  both  obtained  a  seat  in 
the  house  of  peers  by  eminence  in  the  profession  of  the  law. 
William,  the  eldest,  became  Lord  High  Chancellor  in  1707. 
Spencer  Cowper,  the  youngest,  was  appointed  Chief  Justice  of 
Chester  in  1717,  and  afterwards  a  judge  in  the  court  of  Common 
Pleas,  being  permitted,  by  the  particular  favour  of  the  King,  to  hold 
those  two  oJRfices  to  the  end  of  his  life.  He  died  in  Lincoln's  Inn, 
on  the  10th  of  December,  1728,  and  has  the  higher  claim  to  our 
notice  as  the  immediate  ancestor  of  the  Poet.  By  Theodora,  his 
second  wife,  the  widow  of  George  Stepney,  Esq.  Judge  Cowi^er 
left  several  children ;  among  them  a  daughter  Judith,  who,  at  the 
age  of  eighteen,  discovered  a  striking  talent  for  poetry,  in  the 
praise  of  her  cotemporary  poets  Pope  and  Hughes.  This  lady, 
the  wife  of  Colonel  Mudan,  transmitted  her  own  poetical  ^nd  de- 
vout spirit  to  her  daughter  Frances  Maria,  who  was  married  to 
her  cousin.  Major  Cowper,  and  whose  amiable  character  will  un- 
fold itself  in  the  course  of  this  work,  as  the  friend  and  correspon- 
dent of  her  more  eminent  relation,  the  second  grandchild  of  the 
judge,  destined  to  honour  the  name  of  Cowper,  by  displa)ing,  witli 
peculiar  purity  and  fervour,  the  double  enthusiasm  of  poetry  and 
devotion.  The  father  of  the  great  author  to  whom  I  allude,  was 
John  Cowper,  the  judge's  second  son,  who  took  his  degrees  in  di- 
vinity, was  chaplain  to  King  George  the  Second,  and  resided  at 

VOL.  I.  B 


3  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

his  Rectory  of  Great  Berkhamstead,  in  Hertfordshire,  tlie  scene 
of  the  Poet's  infancj^,  which  he  has  thus  commemorated  in  a  sin- 
gularly beautiful  and  pathetic  composition  on  the  portrait  of  his 
mother. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nurs'iy  floor, 
And  where  the  gard'ner  Robm,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way ; 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapt 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  capt, 
'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known. 
That  once  we  call'd  the  past'ral  house  our  own. 
Short-liv'd  possession !  but  the  record  fair 
That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there, 
1        Still  outlives  many  a  storm  that  has  effac'd 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  trac'd. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 
That  thou  might'st  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid ; 
Thy  morning  bounties,  ere  I  left  my  home, 
The  biscuit,  or  confectionary  plumb ; 
The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestow 'd 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glow'd. 
All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all. 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall ; 
Ne'er  roughen'd  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks, 
That  humour  interpos'd  too  often  makes. 
All  this,  stiU  legible  in  memory's  page, 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age, 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pa.y 
Such  honours  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may. 

The  parent  whose  merits  are  so  feelingly  recorded  by  the  filiab 
tenderness  of  the  Poet,  was  Ann,  daughter  of  Roger  Donne,  Esq. 
of  L\idliam  Hall,  in  Norfolk.  This  lady,  whose  family  is  said  to 
have  been  originallj'  from  Wales,  was  married,  in  the  bloom  of 
youth,  to  Dr.  Cowper ;  after  giving  l^irth  to  several  children,  wlio 
died  in  their  infancy,  and  leaving  two  sons,  William,  the  immediate" 
subject  of  this  memorial,  born  at  Berkhamstead  on  the  26th  of 
November,  N.  S.  1731,  and  John  (whose  accomplishments  and 
memorable  death  will  be  described  in  the  course  of  this  compilation), 
i^ie  died  in  childbed  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-four,  in  173".  It  may 
be  wished  that  the  painter  emplo}  cd  to  preserve  a  resemblance 
of  iuch  a.  Avoman  had  possessed  tliose  powers  of  graceful  and  per- 


/  J 

MotJier  of  tJiePoet  . 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  :? 

•feet  delineation  which,  in  a  different  art,  beloug»^d  to  the  pen  of  her 
«on ;  but  her  portrait,  executed  by  Heins  in  oil-colours,  on  a  small 
scale,  is  a  production  infinitely  inferior  to  the  very  lieautiful  poem 
to  which  it  gave  rise.  Yet  such  as  it  is,  I  apprehend  it  will  gratify 
my  reader  to  find  it  in  this  volume  correctly  engraved ;  for  what 
lover  of  poetry  can  fail  to  take  an  affectionate  interest  in  the  mother 
of  Cowper?  Those  who  delight  in  contemplating  the  best  affec- 
tions of  our  nature,  will  ever  admire  the  tender  sensibility  with 
which  the  Poet  has  acknowledged  liis  obligaticxis  to  this  amiable 
mother,  in  a  poem  composed  moi-e  than  fifty  years  after  her  decease. 
Readers  of  this  tlescription  may  find  a  pleasure  in  observing  how 
the  praise  so  liberally  bestowed  on  this  tender  parent,  at  so  late  a 
period,  is  confirmed  (if  praise  so  unquestionable  may  be  said  to  re- 
ceive confirmation)  by  another  poetical  record  of  her  merit,  which 
the  hand  of  affinii;y  and  affection  bestowed  upon  her  tomb.  A  re^ 
cord  written  at  a  time  when  the  Poet,  who  was  destined  to  prove, 
in  his  advanced  life,  her  more  powerful  eulogist,  had  hardly  begun 
to  show  the  dawn  of  that  genius  which,  after  years  of  silent  afflic- 
tion, arose  like  a  star  emerging  from  tempestuous  darkness. 

The  monument  of  Mrs.  Cowiier,  erected  by  her  iiusbaud  in  the 
chancel  of  St.  Peter's  chui-ch,  at  Berkhamstead,  contains  the  fol- 
lowing verses,  composed  by  a  young  lady,  her  niece,  the  late  Lady 
Walsingham; 

•Here  lies,  in  early  5'ears  bereft  of  life, 
The  best  of  mothers,  and  the  kindest  wife ; 
W'ho  neither  knew,  nor  practis'd  any  art, 
Secure  in  all  she  wish'd,  her  husband's  heart. 
Her  love  to  him  still  prevalent  in  death, 
,  Pray'd  Heaven  to  bless  him  with  her  latest  bl'eath. 

Still  was  she  studious  never  to  offend, 
And  glad  of  an  occasion  to  commend : 
With  ease  would  pardon  injuries  receiv'd. 
Nor  e'er  was  cheerful  when  another  griev'd. 
Despising  state,  with  her  own  lot  content, 
Enjoy'd  the  comforts  of  a  life  well-spent. 
Resigned  when  Heaven  demanded  back  her  breatli, 
Fler  mind  heroic  'midst  the  pangs  of  deatli. 

Whoe'er  thou  art  that  dost  this  Tomb  draw  near, 
(■)  stay  awhile,  and  shed  a  friendly  tear. 
These  lines,  tho'  weak,  are  as  herself  sincere. 


} 


The  truth  and  tenderness  of  this  Epitaph  will  more  than  com- 
pensate with  every  candid  reader  the  imperfection  asciibed  to  it  by 


4  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

its  young  and  modest  Author.  To  have  lost  a  parent  of  a  charac- 
ter so  virtuous  and  endearing,  at  an  early  period  of  his  childhood, 
was  the  prime  misfortune  of  Cowper,  and  what  contributed,  per- 
haps in  the  highest  degree,  to  the  dark  colouring  of  his  subsequent 
life.  The  influence  of  a  good  mother  on  the  first  years  of  her  chil- 
dren, whether  nature  has  given  them  peculiar  strength,  or  pecu- 
liar delicacy  of  frame,  is  equally  inestimable:  It  is  the  prerogative 
and  the  felicity  of  such  a  mother  to  temper  the  arrogance  of  the 
strong,  and  to  dissipate  the  timidity  of  the  tender.  The  infancy  of 
CoAvper  was  delicate  in  no  common  degree,  and  his  constitution 
discovered,  at  a  very  early  season,  that  morbid  tendency  to  diffi- 
dence, to  melancholy,  and  despair,  which  darkened  as  he  advanced 
in  years  into  periodical  fits  of  the  most  deploi-able  depression. 

It  may  afford  an  ample  field  for  useful  reflection  to  observe,  in 
speaking  of  a  child,  that  he  was  destined  to  excite,  in  his  progress 
through  life,  the  highest  degrees  of  admiration  and  of  pity — of 
admiration  for  mental  excellence,  and  of  pity  for  mental  disorder. 

We  understand  human  nature  too  imperfectly  to  ascertain  in 
what  measure  the  original  structure  of  his  frame,  and  the  casual 
incidents  of  his  life,  contributed  to  the  happy  perfection  of  his  ge- 
nius, or  to  the  calamitous  eclipses  of  his  effulgent  mind.  Yet  such 
were  the  talents,  the  virtues,  and  the  misfortunes  of  this  wonderfiil 
person,  that  it  is  hardly  possible  for  Biography,  extensive  as  her 
province  is,  to  speak  of  a  more  interesting  individual,  or  to  select 
a  subject  on  which  it  may  be  more  difficult  to  satisfy  a  variety  of 
readers.  In  feeling  all  the  weight  of  this  difficulty,  I  may  still  be 
confident  that  I  shall  not  utterly  disappoint  his  sincerest  admirers, 
if  the  success  of  my  endeavours  to  make  him  more  known,  and 
more  beloved,  is  proportioned,  in  any  degree,  to  the  zeal  witli 
which  I  cultivated  his  friendship,  and  to  the  gratification  that  I  feel 
in  recalling  to  my  own  recollection  the  delightful  extent  and  diver- 
sity of  his  literary  powers,  with  the  equally  delightfid  sweetness  of 
his  social  character. 

But  the  powerful  influence  of  such  recollection  has  drawn  me 
imperceptibly  from  the  proper  course  of  my  narrative. — I  return 
to  the  childhood  of  Cowper.  In  first  quitting  the  house  of  his 
parents,  he  was  sent  to  a  reputable  school  at  Market-Street,,  in 
Hertfordshire,  under  the  care  of  Dr.  Pitman,  and  it  is  probable  that 
he  was  removed  from  it  in  consequei>ce  of  an  ocular  complaint. 
From  a  circumstance  which  he  relates  of  himself  at  that  period,  in 
a  letter  written  to  me  in  1792,  he  seems  lo  have  been  in  danger  of 
resembling  Milton  in  the  misfortune  of  blindness,  as  he  resembled 
him,  more  happily,  in  the  fervency  of  a  devout  and  poetical  spirit. 

"  I  have  been  all  my  life,"  says  Cowper,  "  subject  to  inflamma- 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  5 

^ions  of  the  eye,  and  in  my  boyish  days  had  specks  on  both  that 
threatened  to  cover  them.  My  father,  alarmed  for  the  conse- 
quences, sent  me  to  a  female  oculist  of  great  renown  at  that  time, 
in  whose  house  I  alwde  two  years,  but  to  no  good  purpose.  From 
her  I  went  to  Westminster  school,  where,  at  the  age  of  fourteen, 
the  small-pox  seized  me,  and  proved  the  better  oculist  of  the  two, 
for  it  delivered  me  from  them  all.  Not,  however,  from  great  lia- 
bleness  to  inflammation,  to  which  I  am  in  a  degree  still  subject, 
though  nmch  less  than  formerly,  "since  I  have  bepn  constant  in  the 
use  of  a  hot  foot-bath  every  night,  the  last  thing  before  going  to  rest." 
It  appears  a  strange  process  in  education  to  send  a  tender  child 
from  a  long  residence  in  the  house  of  a  female  oculist  immediately 
into  all  the  hardships  that  a  little  delicate  boy  must  have  to  encoun- 
ter at  a  public  school.  But  the  mother  of  Cowper  was  dead,  and 
fathers,  though  good  men,  are,  in  general,  utterly  unfit  to  manage 
their  young  and  tender  orphans.  The  little  Cowper  was  sent  to  hia 
first  school  in  the  year  of  his  mother's  death,  and  how  ill-suited  the 
scene  was  to  his  peculiar  character,  must  be  evident  to  all  who  have 
heard  him  describe  his  sensations  in  that  season  of  life,  which  is 
often,  very  erroneously,  extolled  as  the  happiest  period  of  human 
existence.  He  has  been  frequently  heard  to  lament  the  persecu- 
tion that  he  sustained  in  his  childish  years,  from  the  cruelty  of  his 
school-fellows,  in  the  two  scenes  of  his  education.  His  own  forci- 
ble expression  represented  him  at  Westminster  as  not  daring  to 
raise  his  eye  above  the  shoe-buckle  of  the  elder  boys,  who  were  too 
apt  to  tyrannize  over  his  gentle  spirit.  The  acuteness  of  his  feel- 
ings in  his  childhood  rendered  those  impoi-tant  j^ears  (which  might 
have  produced,  under  tender  cultivation,  a  series  of  lively  enjoy- 
ments) miserable  years  of  increasing  timidity  and  depression, 
Avhich,  in  the  most  cheerful  hours  of  his  advanced  life,  he  could 
hardly  describe  to  an  intimate  friend,  without  shuddering  at  the 
recollection  of  his  early  wretchedness.  Yet  to  this,  perhaps,  the 
world  is  indebted  for  the  pathetic  and  moral  eloquence  of  those 
forcible  admonitions  to  parents  which  give  interest  and  beauty  to 
his  admirable  Pcem  on  Public  Schools.  Poets  may  be  said  to  rea- 
lize, in  some  measure,  the  poetical  idea  of  the  Nightingale  singing 
■with  a  thorn  at  her  breast,  as  their  most  exquisite  songs  have  often 
originated  in  the  acuteness  of  their  personal  sufferings.  Of  this 
oljvious  truth,  the  Poem  I  ha\  e  just  mentioned  is  a  very  memora- 
ble example ;  and  if  any  readers  have  thought  the  Poet  too  severe 
in  his  strictures  on  that  system  of  education  to  whicli  we  owe  some 
of  the  most  accomplished  characters  that  ever  gave  celebrity  to  a 
ci\'ilized  nation,  such  readers  will  Ijc  candidly  reconciled  to  that 
moral  severity  of  reproof,  in  recollecting  that  it  flowed  from  sc- 


6  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

vere  personal  experience,  united  to  the  purest  spirit  of  philan- 
thropy and  patriotism. 

Cowper's  exhortation  to  fathers,  to  educate  their  own  sons,  is  a 
model  of  persuasive  eloquence,  and  not  inferior  to  similar  exhor- 
tations in  the  eloquent  Rousseau,  or  in  the  accomplished  translator 
of  TansiUo's  poem,  the  Nurse,  by  which  these  enchanting  writers 
have  induced,  and  wiU  continue  to  induce,  so  many  niothers  in 
polished  life  to  suckle  their  o^vn  children.  Yet  similar  as  these  ex- 
hortations maybe  esteemed,  in  their  benevolent  design,  and  in  their 
graceful  expi-ession,  there  are  two  powerfiil  reasons,  which  must, 
in  all  probability,  prevent  their  being  attended  with  similar  success. 
In  the  first  place,  woman  has,  in  general,  much  stronger  prcpenr 
bity  than  man  to  the  perfect  discharge  of  parental  duties ;  and,  se- 
condly, the  avocations  of  men  are  so  imperious,  in  their  different 
lines  of  life,  that  few  fathers  could  command  sufficient  leisure  (if 
nature  furnished  them  with  talents  and  inclination)  to  fulfil  the  ar- 
duous office  of  preceptor  to  their  own  children ;  yet  arduous  and 
irksome  as  the  office  is  generally  thought,  there  is  perhaps  no  spe- 
cies of  mental  labour  so  perfectly  sweet  in  its  success;  and  the  Poet 
justly  exclaims: 

O  'tis  a  sight  to  be  with  joy  perus'd,  ^ 

A  sight  surpass'd  by  none  that  we  can  show ! 


A  Fathei'  blest  with  an  ingenuous  Son; 
Father,  and  Friend,  and  Tutor,  all  in  one. 

Had  the  constitutional  shyness  and  timidity  of  Cowper  been 
gradually  dispelled  by  the  rare  advantage  tliat  he  describes  in  these 
verses,  his  early  years  would  certainly  have  been  happier ;  but  men 
who  are  partial  to  public  schools  will  probably  doubt  if  any  system 
of  private  tuition  could  ha-\e  proved  more  favourable  to  the  future 
display  of  his  genius,  than  such  an  education  as  he  received  at  West- 
minster, where,  however  the  peculiar  delicacy  of  his  nature  might 
expose  him  to  an  extraordinary  portion  of  juvenile  discomfort,  he 
undoubtedly  acquired  the  accomplishment  and  the  reputation  of 
scholarsliip,  with  the  advantage  of  being  known  and  esteemed  by 
some  aspiring  youths  of  his  own  age,  who  were  destined  to  become 
conspicuous  and  powerful  in  the  splendid  scenes  of  the  world. 

With  these  acquisitions  he  left  Westminster,  at  the  age  of 
eighteen,  in  1749;  and,  as  if  destiny  had  detei*m.ined  that  all  his 
early  situations  in  life  should  be  peculiarly  irksome  to  his  delicate 
feelings,  and  tend  rather  to  promote  than  to  com.teract  a  constitu- 


LIFE  OF  COWPEH.  7 

tional  terrdency  to  a  morbid  sensibility  in  his  frame,  he  was  re- 
moved from  a  public  school  to  the  office  of  an  attorney.  He  re- 
sided three  years  in  the  house  of  a  Mr.  Chapman,  to  whom  he  was 
engaged  by  articles  for  that  time.  Here  he  was  placed  for  the. 
study  of  a  profession  which  nature  seemed  resolved  that  he  never 
should  practise. 

The  law  is  a  kind  of  soldiership,  and,  like  the  profession  of 
arms,  it  may  be  said  to  require  for  the  constitution  of  its  hd^ocs 

"  A  frame  of  adamant,  a  soul  of  fire." 

The  soul  of  Cowper  had  indeed  its  fire,  but  fire  so  refined  and 
etherial,  that  it  could  not  be  expected  to  shine  in  the  gross  at- 
mosphere of  worldly  contention.  Perhaps  there  never  existed  a 
mortal  who,  possessing,  with  a  good  person,  intellectual  powers 
nararally  strong,  and  highly  cultivated,  was  so  utterly  unfit  to  en- 
counter the  bustle  and  perplexities  of  public  life.  But  the  extreme 
modesty  and  shyness  of  his  nature,  which  disqualified  him  lor 
scenes  of  business  and  ambition,  endeared  him  inexpressibly  to 
those  who  had  opportunities  to  enjoy  his  society,  and  faculties  to 
appreciate  the  uncommon  excellence  of  his  interesting  character. 

Reserved  as  he  was,  to  an  extraordinary  and  painful  degree,  his 
heart  and  mind  were  yet  admirably  fashioned  by  nature  for  all  the 
refined  intercourse  and  confidential  delights,  both  of  friendship  and 
of  love :  but  though  apparently  formed  to  possess,  and  to  commu- 
nicate an  extraordinary  portion  of  mortal  felicity,  the  incidents  of 
his  life  were  such,  that,  conspiring  with  the  peculiarities  of  his  na- 
ture, they  rendered  him,  at  different  times,  the  most  unhappy  of 
mankind.  The  variety  and  depth  of  his  sufferings,  in  early  life, 
from  extreme  tenderness  of  heart,  are  very  forcibly  displayed  in 
the  following  verses,  which  formed  part  of  a  letter  to  one  of  his 
female  relations  at  the  time  they  were  composed.  The  letter  has 
perished;  and  the  verses  owe  their  preservation  to  the  affectionate 
memory  of  tlie  lady  to  whom  they  were  addressed. 

Doom'd,  as  I  am,  in  solitude  to  waste 
The  present  moments,  and  regret  the  past; 
Depriv'd  of  every  joy  I  valued  most, 
My  Friend  torn  from  me,  smd  my  Mistress  lost ; 
Call  not  this  gloom,  I  wear,  this  anxious  mien, 
The  dull  effect  of  humour,  or  of  spleen ! 
Still,  still  I  moui'n,  with  eaph  returning  day. 
Him*  snatch'd  by  Fate,  in  early  youth,  away. 

♦  Sir  William  Riissel,  rtie  favourite  friend  of  the  young  Puci. 


8  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

And  her — through  tedious  years  of  doubt  and  pain^' 
Fix'd  in  her  choice,  and  faithful — ^but  in  vain  1 
O  prone  to  pity,  genei'ous,  and  sincere, 
Whose  eye  ne'er  yet  refiised  the  wretch  a  tear; 
Whose  heart  the  real  claim  of  friendship  knows. 
Nor  thinks  a  lover's  are  but  fancied  woes ; 
See  me — ere  yet  my  destin'd  course  half  done, 
Cast  forth  a  wand'rer  on  a  wild  unknown ! 
See  me  neglected  on  the  world's  rude  coast, 
Each  dear  companion  of  my  voyage  lost ! 
Nor  ask  why  clouds  of  sorrow  shade  my  brow  ! 
And  ready  tears  wait  only  leave  to  flow ! 
Why  all  that  sooths  a  heart,  from  anguish  free, 
All  that  delights  the  happy — palls  with  me  1 

When  he  quitted  the  house  of  the  solicitor,  where  he  was  placed 
to  acquire  the  rudiments  of  litigation,  he  settled  himself  in  cham- 
bers of  the  Inner-Temple,  as  a  regular  student  of  laAv ;  but  although 
he  resided  there  to  the  age  of  thirty-three,  he  rambled  (according^ 
to  his  own  colloquial  account  of  his  early  years)  from  the  thorny 
road  of  his  austere  patroness,  Jurisprudence,  into  the  primrose  paths 
of  Literature  and  Poetry.  Even  here  his  native  diffidence  confined 
him  to  social  and  subordinate  exertions.  He  wrote  and  printed 
both  prose  and  verse,  as  the  concealed  assistant  of  less  diffident 
authors.  During  his  residence  in  the  Temple,  he  cultivated  the 
friendship  of  some  eminent  literary  characters,  who  had  been  his 
School -fellows  at  Westminster,  particularly  Colman,  Bonnel  Thorn- 
ton, and  Lloyd.  His  regard  to  the  two  first  induced  him  to  contri- 
bute to  their  periodical  publication,  entitled  the  Connoisseur,  three 
excellent  papers,  which  the  reader  will  find  in  the  Appendix  to 
tliese  volumes,  and  from  which  he  will  perceive,  that  Cowper  had 
such  talents  for  this  pleasant  and  useful  species  of  composition,  as 
might  ha^'e  rendered  him  a  woi'thy  associate,  in  such  labours,  to 
AdcUson  himself,  whose  graceful  powers  have  never  been  surpassed 
in  that  province  of  literature,  which  may  stiU  be  considered  as  pe- 
culiarly his  own. 

The  intimacy  of  Cowper  and  Lloyd  may  have  given  rise  perhaps 
to  some  early  productions  of  our  Poet,  which  it  may  now  be  hardly 
possible  to  ascertain;  the  probability  of  this  conjectm-e  arises  from 
the  necessities  of  Lloyd,  and  the  affectionate  liberality  of  his  friend. 
As  the  former  was  tempted,  by  his  narrow  finances,  to  engage  in 
periodical  works,  it  is  highly  probable  that  the  pen  of  Cow]jer,  ever 
ready  to  second  the  charitable  wishes  of  his  heart,  might  be  de- 
voted tq  tJie  service  of  an  indigent  Avithor,  whom  he  appears  to 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  9 

have  loved  with  a  very  cordial  affection.  I  find  that  affection  agree- 
ably displayed  in  a  sportive  poetical  epistle,  which  may  claim  a 
place  in  tWs  volume,  not  only  as  an  early  specimen  of  Cowper's 
poetry,  but  as  exhibiting  a  sketch  of  his  own  mind  at  the  age  of 
twenty-three. 

AN  EPISTLE  TO  ROBERT  LLOYD,  ESQ.  1754. 
'Tis  not  that  I  design  to  rob 
Thee  of  thy  birth-right,  gentle  Bob, 
For  thou  art  born  sole  heir,  and  single^ 
Of  dear  Mat  Prior's  easy  jingle  j 
Nor  that  I  mean,  while  thus  I  knit 
My  thread-bare  sentiments  together, 
To  show  my  genius,  or  my  wit. 
When  God  and  you  know  I  have  neither ; 
Or  such,  as  might  be  better  shown 
By  letting  Poetry  alone. 
'Tis  not  with  either  of  these  views 
That  I  presume  to  address  the  Muse  * 
But  to  divert  a  fierce  banditti, 
(Sworn  foes  to  every  thing  that's  witty !) 
That,  with  a  black,  infernal  train, 
Make  cruel  inroads  in  my  brain, 
And  daily  threaten  to  drive  thence 
My  little  garrison  of  sense : 
The  fierce  banditti  which  I  mean, 
Are  gloomy  thoughts,  led  on  by  spleen^ 
Then  tliere's  another  reason  yet, 
Wliich  is,  that  I  may  fairly  quit 
The  debt,  which  justly  became  due 
The  moment  when  I  heard  from  you: 
And  you  might  grumble,  crony  mine. 
If  paid  in  any  otlner  coin ; 
Since  twenty  sheets  of  lead,  God  knowfc 
(I  would  say  twenty  sheets  of  prose) 
Can  ne'er  be  deem'd  worth  half  so  mucU 
As  one  of  gold,  and  yours  was  such. 
Thus,  the  preliminaries  settled, 
I  fairly  find  myself  fiitch-kettled ;* 
And  cannot  see,  tho'  few  see  better, 
How  I  shaU  hammer  out  a  letter* 


•  Piti-h-ieltleJ,  a  favourite  phrase  at  the  time  when  this  Epistle  was  written,  expretslva  of 
being  puzzled;  or  what,  in  the  Siiectatoi's  time,  would  lia»e  been  called  bamboozM, 
VOL,  I.  C 


1»  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

First,  for  a  thought — since  all  agree—' 
A  th'^ught — I  have  it — let  me  see — 
'Tis  gone  again — Plague  on't !  I  thought 
I  had  it — ^but  I  have  it  not. 
Dame  Gurton  thus,  and  Hodge  her  son, 
That  useful  thing,  her  needle,  gone ; 
Rake  well  the  cinders ; — sweep  the  floor, 
And  sift  the  dust  behind  the  door ; 
While  eager  Hodge  beholds  the  prize- 
In  old  Grimalkin's  glaring  eyes; 
And  Gammer  finds  it  on  her  knees 
In  every  shining  straw  she  sees. 
This  simile  were  apt  enough  j 
But  I've  another  critic-proof  I 
The  Virtuoso  thus,  at  noon 
Broiling  beneath  a  July  sun, 
The  gilded  Butterfly  pursues, 
O'er  hedge  and  ditch,  through  gaps  and  me-vfs; 
And  after  many  a  vain  essay 
To  captivate  the  tempting  prey» 
Gives  him  at  length  the  lucky  pat, 
And  has  him  safe,  beneath  his  hat  r 
Then  lifts  it  gently  from  the  ground; 
But  ah  I  'tis  lost  as  soon  as  found ; 
Culprit  his  liberty  regains, 
FUts  out  of  sight,  and  mocks  his  pains. 
The  sense  was  dark ;  'twas  therefore  fit 
With  simile  t'  illustrate  it; 
But  as  too  much  obscures  the  sight, 
As  often  as  too  little  light, 
We  have  our  similies  cut  short. 
For  matters  of  more  grave  import. 
That  Matthew's  numbers  run  with  ease, 
Each  man  of  common  sense  agrees ; 
All  men  of  common  sense  allow, 
That  Robert's  lines  are  easy  too : 
Where  then  the  preference  shall  we  place  ? 
Or  how  do  justice  in  this  case  ? 
Matthew  (says  Fame),  with  endless  pains, 
Smooth'd,  and  refin'd,  the  meanest  strains; 
Nor  suffer'd  one  ill  chosen  rh}me 
T'  escape  him  at  the  idlest  time ; 
And  thus  o'er  all  a  lustre  cast, 
That,  while  the  language  lives,  shall  last^ 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  11 

Ari't  please  your  Ladyship  (quoth  I), 

For 'tis  my  business  to  reply; 

Sure  so  much  labour,  so  much  toil, 

Bespeak  at  least  a  stubborn  soil: 

Theirs  be  the  laurel-wreath  decreed. 

Who  Ijotli  write  well,  and  write  full  speed  I 

Who  throw  their  Helicon  about 

As  freely  as  a  conduit  spout ! 

Friend  Robert,  thus  like  chien  scavant^ 

Let's  fall  a  poem  en  fmssant ;  ' 

Nor  needs  his  genuine  ore  refine, 

'Tis  ready  polish'd  from  the  mine. 

It  may  be  proper  to  observe,  that  this  lively  praise  on  the  playful 
talent  of  Lloyd  was  Avritten  six  years  before  that  amiable  but  un- 
fortunate author  published  the  best  of  his  serious  poems,  "  The 
Actor,"  a  composition  of  considerable  merit,  which  proved  a  pi'e- 
lude  to  the  more  powerful  and  popular  Rosciad  of  Churchill ;  who, 
after  surpassing  Lloyd  as  a  rival,  assisted  him  very  liberally  as  a 
friend.  While  Cowper  resided  in  the  Temple,  he  seems  to  have 
been  personally  acquainted  with  the  most  eminent  writers  of  the 
time ;  and  the  interest  which  he  probably  took  in  their  recent  works 
tended  to  increase  his  powerful  though  diffident  passion  for  poetry, 
and  to  train  him  imperceptibly  to  that  masterly  command  of  lan- 
guage, which  time  and  chance  led  him  to  display,  almost  as  a  new 
talent,  at  the  age  of  fifty.  One  of  his  first  associates  has  informed 
me,  that  before  he  quitted  London  he  frequently  amused  himself 
in  translation  from  ancient  and  modern  poets,  and  devoted  his  com- 
position to  the  service  of  any  friend  who  requested  it.  In  a  copy 
of  Duncombe's  Horace,  printed  in  1759,  I  find  two  of  the  Satires 
translated  by  Cowper.  The  Buncombes,  father  and  son,  were 
amiable  scholars,  of  a  Hertfordshire  family;  and  the  elder  Dun- 
eombe,  in  his  printed  letters,  mentions  Dr.  Cowper  (the  father  of 
the  Poet)  as  one  of  his  friends,  who  possessed  a  talent  for  poetry, 
exhibiting,  at  the  same  time,  a  respectable  specimen  of  his  verse. 
The  Duncombes,  in  the  preface  to  their  Horace,  impute  the  size 
of  their  work  to  the  poetical  contributions  of  their  friends.  At 
what  time  the  two  Satires  I  have  mentioned  were  translated  by 
William  Cowper,  I  have  not  been  able  to  ascertain ;  but  they  are 
worthy  his  pen,  and  will,  therefore,  appear  in  the  Appendix  to 
thes?  volumes. 

Speaking  of  his  own  early  life,  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Park,  dated 
March,  1792,  Cow])er  says,  with  that  extreme  modesty  which  was 
one  of  his  most  remarkable  characteristics,  "  From  the  age  of 


^12  I^IFE  OF  COWPER. 

twenty  to  thirty-three,  I  was  occupied,  or  ought  to  have  been,  in 
the  study  of  the  law;  from  thirty-three  to  sixty  I  have  spent  my 
time  in  the  country,  where  my  reading  has  been  only  an  apology 
for  idleness;  and  where,  when  I  had  not  either  a  Magazine  or  a 
Review,  I  was  sometimes  a  carpenter,  at  others  a  bird-cage  maker, 
or  a  gardener,  or  a  drawer  of  landscapes.  At  fifty  years  of  age 
I  commenced  an  author :  it  is  a  whim  that  has  served  me  longest 
and  best,  and  will  probably  be  my  last." 

Lightly  as  this  most  modest  of  Poets  has  spoken  of  his  own  ex- 
ertions, and  late  as  he  appeared  to  himself  in  producing  his  chief 
poetical  works,  he  had  received  from  nature  a  contemplative  spirit, 
perpetually  acquiring  a  store  of  mental  treasure,  which  he  at  last 
unveiled,  to  delight  and  astonish  the  world  with  its  unexpected 
magnificence.  Even  his  juvenile  verses  discover  a  mind  deeply 
impressed  with  sentimehts  of  piety ;  and,  in  proof  of  this  assertion, 
I  select  a  few  stanzas  from  an  Ode  written,  when  he  was  very 
young,  on  reading  Sir  Charles  Grandison. 

To  rescue  from  the  tyrant's  sword 

The  oppress'd ; — unseen,  and  unimplor'd, 

To  cheer  the  face  of  woe ; 
From  lawless  insult  to  defend 
An  orphan's  right — a  fallen  friend, 

And  a  forgivei;!  foe ; 

These,  these  distinguish,  from  the  crowd, 
And  these  alone,  the  great  and  good, 

The  guardians  of  mankind ; 
Whose  bosoms  with  these  virtues  he&\e, 
O,  with  what  matchless  speed  they  leave 

The  multitude  behind  I 

Then  ask  ye  from  what  cause  on  earth 
Virtues  like  these  derive  their  birth? 

Derived  from  Heaven  alone, 
Full  on  that  favour'd  breast  they  shine, 
Where  Faith  and  Resignation  join 

To  call  the  blessing  down. 

Such  is  that  heart : — But  while  the  Muse 
Thy  theme,  O  Richardson,  pursues. 

Her  feebler  spirits  faint: 
She  cannot  reach,  and  would  not  wrong 
That  subject  for  an  Angel's  song. 

The  Hero  and  the  Saint. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  IS 

His  eai-ly  turn  to  moralize,  on  the  slightest  occasion,  ■will  appear 
from  the  following  Verses,  which  he  wrote  at  the  age  of  eighteen; 
and  in  which  those  who  love  to  trace  the  rise  and  progress  of  ge- 
nius will,  I  think,  be  pleased  to  remark  the  very  promising  seeds 
of  those  peculiar  powers  which  unfolded  tliemselves  in  the  richest 
maturity,  at  a  distant  period,  and  rendered  that  beautiful  and  sub- 
lime poem,  The  Task,  the  most  instructive  and  interesting  of  mo- 
dern compositions. 

Verses  ivritten  at  Bath,  in  1748,  onjiiiding  the  Heel  of  a  Shoe. 
Fortune !  I  thank  thee :  gentle  Goddess !  thanks ! 
Not  that  my  Muse,  though  bashful,  shall  deny, 
She  would  have  thank'd  thee  rather,  hadst  thou  cast 
A  treasure  in  her  way ;  for  neither  meed 
Of  early  breakfast  to  dispel  the  fumes, 
And  bowel-racking  pains  of  emptiness, 
Nor  noon-tide  feast,  nor  evening's  cool  repast, 
Hopes  she  from  this,  presumptuous,  tho'  perhaps 
The  Cobler,  leather-carving  artist  I  might. 
Nathless  she  thanks  thee,  and  accepts  thy  boon 
Whatever,  not  as  erst  the  fabled  Cock, 
Vain-glorious  fool !  unknowing  what  he  found, 
Spurn 'd  the  rich  gem  thou  gav'st  him.    Wherefore  ah! 
Why  not  on  me  that  favour,  (worthier  sure!) 
Conferr'dst  thou,  Goddess'.  Thou  art  blind,  thou  say'st: 
Enough  I — Thy  blindness  shall  excuse  the  deed. 

Nor  does  my  Muse  no  benefit  exhale 
From  this  thy  scant  indulgence ! — even  here 
Hints,  worthy  sage  philosophy,  are  found  j 
Illustrious  hints  to  moralize  my  song! 
This  pond'rous  Heel  of  perforated  hide 
Compact,  with  pegs  indented,  many  a  row, 
Haply  (for  such  its  massy  form  bespeaks) 
The  weighty  tread  of  some  rude  peasant  clown 
Upbore:  on  this  supported,  oft  he  stretch 'd, 
With  uncouth  strides,  along  the  furrow 'd  glebe, 
Flatt'ning  the  stubborn  clod,  till  cruel  time, 
(What  will  not  cruel  time?)  on  a  wiy  step, 
Sever'd  the  strict  cohesion :  when,  alas ! 
He,  who  could  erst,  with  even,  equal  pace, 
Pursue  his  destin'd  way,  vt'ith  symmetry, 
And  some  proportion  form'd,  now,  on  me  side, 
Curtail'd  and  niaim'd,  tlie  s[)ort  of  vagrant  boys, 


14  LIFE  OF  CGWPER. 

Cursing  his  frail  supporter,  treacherous  prop ! 
With  toilsome  steps,  and  difficult,  moves  on. 
Thus  fares  it  oft  with  other,  than  the  feet 
Of  humble  villager — ^the  statesman  thus, 
Up  the  steep  road,  where  proud  ambition  l^ads, 
Aspiring  first,  uninterrupted  winds 
His  prosp'rous  way;  nor  feai's  miscarriage  foul, 
Wliile  policy  prevails,  and  friends  prove  true : 
But  that  support  soon  failing,  by  him  left. 
On  whom  he  most  depended,  basely  left, 
Betray'd,  deserted,  from  his  airy  height 
Head-long  he  falls;  and  through  the  rest  of  life 
Drags  the  dull  load  of  disappointment  on. 

©f  a  youth,  who,  in  a  scene  like  Bath,  could  produce  such  a 
wieditation,  it  might  fairly  be  expected  tliat  he  would, 

"  In  riper  life,  exempt  fi-om  public  haunt, 

Find  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 

Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  eveiy  thing." 

These  few  words  of  Shakspeare  have  often  appeared  to  me  as  ai^ 
absolute  portrait  of  Cowper,  at  that  happiest  period  of  his  days, 
when  he  exercised  and  enjoyed  his  rare  poetical  powers  in  privacy, 
at  the  pleasant  village  of  Weston.  But  before  we  contemplate  the 
poetical  Recluse  in  that  scene,  it  is  the  duty  of  his  biographer  to 
relate  some  painful  incidents,  that  led  him,  by  extraordinary  steps, 
to  his  favourite  retreat. 

Though  extreme  diffidence,  and  a  tendency  to  despond,  seemed 
early  to  preclude  Cowper  from  the  expectation  of  climbing  to  the 
splendid  summit  of  the  profession  he  had  chosen ;  yet,  by  the  in- 
terest of  his  family,  he  had  prospects  of  emolument,  in  a  line  of 
public  life,  that  appeared  better  suited  to  the  modesty  of  his  nature, 
and  to  his  moderate  ambition. 

In  his  thirty-first  year  he  was  nominated  to  the  offices  of  reading 
Clerk,  and  Clerk  of  the  private  Committees  in  the  House  of  Lords. 
A  situation  the  more  desirable,  as  such  an  establishment  miglit 
enable  him  to  marry  early  in  life ;  a  measure  to  which  he  was 
doubly  disposed  by  judgment  and  inclination.  But  the  pecuharities 
of  his  wonderful  mind  rendered  him  unable  to  support  the  ordinary 
duties  of  his  new  office ;  for  the  idea  of  reading  in  public  proved  a 
source  of  torture  to  his  tender  and  apprehensive  spirit.  An  expe- 
dient,was  devised  to  promote  his  interest,  without  wounding  his 
feelings.  Resigning  his  situation  of  reading  Clerk,  he  was  appointed 


LTFE  OF  COWPER.  W 

Clerk  of  the  Journals  in  tlie  same  House  of  Parlianient,  with  a 
hope  that  his  personal  appearance  in  that  assembly  might  not  be 
required;  but  a  parliamentary  dispute  made  it  necessary  for  him 
to  appear  at  the  bar  of  the  House  of  Lords  to  entitle  himself  pub- 
licly to  the  office. 

Speaking  of  this  important  incident  in  a  sketch,  which  he  once 
formed  himself,  of  passages  in  his  early  life,  he  expresses  what 
he  endured  at  the  time,  ii>  these  remarkable  words :  "  They  whose 
spirits  are  formed  like  mine,  to  whom  a  public  exhibition  of  them- 
selves is  mortal  poison,  may  have  some  idea  of  the  hori'ors  of  my 
situation — others  can  have  none." 

His  terrors  on  this  occasion  arose  to  such  an  astonishing  height, 
that  they  utterly  overwhelmed  his  reason ;  for  although  he  had  en- 
deavoured to  prepare  himself  for  his  public  duty,  by  attending 
closely  at  the  office  for  several  months,  to  examine  the  parli  imen- 
tary  journals,  his  application  was  rendered  useless  by  that  excess 
of  diffidence,  which  made  him  conceive  that  whatever  knowledge 
he  might  previously  acquire,  it  would  all  forsake  him  at  the  bar  of 
the  House.  This  distressing  apprehension  increased  to  such  a  de- 
gree, as  the  time  for  his  appearance  approached,  that  when  the  day 
so  anxiously  dreaded  arrived,  he  was  unable  to  make  the  experi- 
ment. The  very  friends  who  called  on  him  for  the  purpose  of  at- 
tending hinpr  to  the  House  of  Loi'ds,  acquiesced  in  the  cruel  neces- 
sitv  of  his  relinquishing  the  prospect  of  a  station  so  severely  for- 
midable to  a  frame  of  such  singular  sensibility. 

The  conflict  between  the  wishes  of  just  affectionate  ambition  and 
the  terrors  of  diffidence,  so  entirely  overwhelmed  his  health  and 
faculties,  that  after  two  learned  and  benevolent  Divines  (Mr.  John 
Cowper,  his  brother,  and  the  celebrated  Mr.  Martin  Madan,  his 
first  cousin)  had  vainly  endeavoured  to  establish  a  lasting  tranquil- 
lity in  his  mind,  by  friendly  and  religious  conversation,  it  was  found 
necessary  to  remove  him  to  St.  Alban's,  where  he  resided  a  consi- 
derable time,  vmderthe  care  of  that  eminent  phvsician.  Dr.  Cotton, 
a  scholar  and  a  poet,  who  added  to  many  accomplishments  a  pecu- 
liar sweetness  of  manners,  in  very  advanced  life,  when  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  a  personal  acquaintance  with  him. 

The  misfortune  of  mental  derangement  is  a  topic  of  such  awhil 
delicacy,  that  I  consider  it  as  the  duty  of  a  biographer  ratlicr  to 
sink  in  tender  silence,  than  to  proclaim,  with  circumstantial  and 
offensive  temerity,  the  minute  particulars  of  a  calamity  to  which 
all  human  beings  are  exposed,  and  perhaps  in  proportion  as  they 
have  received  from  nature  those  delightful  l)ut  dangerous  gifts,  a 
heart  of  exquisite  tenderness,  and  a  mind  of  creative  energy. 


U  LIFE  OF  COWPER* 

This  is  a  sight  for  pity  to  peruse, 

Till  she  resembles,  faintly,  what  she  views  j 

Till  sympathy  contract  a  kindred  pain, 

Pierc'd  with  the  woes,  that  she  laments  in  vain* 

This,  of  all  maladies  that  man  infest, 

Claims  most  compassion,  and  receives  the  leasta 


But,  with  a  soul  that  ever  felt  the  sting 
Of  sorrow,  sorrow  is  a  sacred  thing. 


'Tis  not,  as  heads  that  never  ache  suppose, 
Forg'ry  of  fancy,  and  a  dream  of  woes. 
Man  is  a  harp,  whose  chords  e!ude  the  sight. 
Each  yielding  harmony,  dispos'd  aright; 
Tlie  screws  revers'd  (a  task  which,  if  he  please^ 
God  in  a  moment  executes  with  ease), 
Ten  thousand  thousand  strings  at  once  go  loose ; 
Lost,  till  he  tune  them,  all  their  power  and  use. 

No  wounds  like  those  a  wounded  spirit  feels ; 

No  cure  for  such,  till  God,  who  makes  them,  heals» 

And  thou,  sad  sufferer,  under  nameless  ill. 

That  yields  not  to  the  touch  of  human  skill, 

Improve  the  kind  occasion,  understand 

A  Father's  frown,  and  kiss  the  chast'ning  hand! 

It  is  in  this  awful  and  instructive  light  that  Cowper  himself 
teaches  us  to  consider  the  calamity  of  which  I  am  now  speaking, 
and  of  which  he,  like  his  illustrious  brother  of  Parnassus,  the 
younger  Tasso,  was  occasionally  a  most  affecting  example.  Heaven 
appears  to  have  given  a  striking  lesson  to  mankind,  to  guard  both 
virtue  and  genius  against  pride  of  heart,  and  pl-ide  of  intellect,  by 
thus  suspending  the  affections  and  the  talents  of  two  most  tender 
and  sublime  poets,  who,  in  the  purity  of  their  lives,  and  in  the 
splendour  of  their  intellectual  powers,  will  be  ever  deservedly 
reckoned  among  the  pre-eminent  of  the  earth. 

From  December,  1763,  to  the  following  July,  the  pure  mind  of 
Cowper  appears  to  have  laboured  under  the  severest  sufferings  of 
morljid  depression ;  but  the  medical  skill  of  Dr.  Cotton,  and  the 
cheerful,  benignant  manners  of  that  accomplished  physician,  gra- 
dually succeeded,  with  the  blessing  of  Heaven,  in  removing  the 
undescribable  load  of  religious  despondency  which  had  clouded  the 


LIFE  OP  COWPER.  17 

admirable  faoilties  of  this  innocent  and  upright  man.  His  ideas 
of  religion  were  changed  from  the  gloom  of  terror  and  despair  to 
tlie  lustre  of  comfort  and  dehght. 

This  juster  and  happier  view  of  Evangelical  truth  is  said  to  have 
arisen  in  his  mind  while  he  was  reading  the  third  chapter  of  St. 
Paul's  Epistle  to  the  Romans.  Devout  contemplation  became  more 
and  more  dear  to  his  reviving  spirit:  resolving  to  relinquish  all 
thoughts  of  a  laborious  profession,  and  all  intercourse  with  the  busy- 
world,  he  acquiesced  in  a  plan  of  settling  at  Huntiiigdon,  by  the 
advice  of  his  brother,  who,  as  a  minister  of  the  Gospel,  and  a 
Fellow  of  Bcnnet  College,  in  Cambridge,  resided  in  that  Univer- 
sity; a  situation  so  near  to  the  place  chosen  for  Cowper's  retire- 
ment, that  it  afforded  to  these  affectionate  brothers  opportunities  of 
easy  and  frequent  intercourse.  I  regret  that  all  the  letters  which 
passed  between  them  have  perished,  and  the  more  so  as  they  some- 
times corresponded  in  verse.  John  Cowper  was  also  a  poet.  He  had 
engaged  to  execute  a  translation  of  Voltaire's  Henriade ;  and,  in  the 
course  of  the  work,  requested  and  obtained  the  assistance  of  Wil- 
liam,.who  translated,  as  he  informed  me  himself,  two  entire  Caritos 
of  the  Pcem.  A  specimen  of  this  fraternal  prroduction,  which  ap- 
peared in  a  Magazine  of  the  year  1759,  will  be  found  in  the  Ap- 
pendix to  these  volumes. 

In  June,  1765,  the  reviving  invalid  removed  to  a  private  lodging 
in  the  town  of  Huntingdon ;  but  Providence  soon  introduced  him 
into  a  family  which  afforded  him  one  of  the  most  singular  and  va- 
luable friends  that  ever  watched  an  afflicted  mortal  in  seasons  of 
overwhelming  adversity;  that  friend  to  whom  the  Poet  exclaims, 
in  the  commencement  of  the  Task, 

And  witness,  dear  companion  of  my  walks, 
Whose  arm  this  twentieth  winter,  I  perceive 
Fast  lock'd  in  mine,  with  pleasure,  such  as  love, 
Confirm 'd  by  long  experience  of  thy  worth. 
And  well-tried  virtues,  could  alone  inspire ; 
Witness  a  joy  that  thou  hast  doubled  long! 
Thou  know'st  my  praise  of  nature  most  sincere; 
And  that  my  raptures  are  not  c<;njured  up 
To  serve  occasions  of  poetic  pomp, 
But  genuine,  and  art  partner  of  them  all. 

These  verses  would  be  alone  sufficient  to  make  every  poetical 
teader  take  a  lively  interest  in  the  lady  they  describe ;  but  these  are 
far  from  being  the  only  tribute  which  the  gratitude  of  Cowper  has 
paid  to  tlie  endearing  virtues  of  his  female  companion.    More  poe- 

VOI-.  I.  a 


18  LIFE  OF  COWTER. 

tical  memorials  of  her  merit  will  be  found  in  these  volumes,  and  in 
verse  so  exquisite,  that  it  may  be  questioned  if  the  most  passionate 
love  ever  gave  rise  to  poetry  more  tender  or  more  sublime. 

Yet,  in  this  place,  it  appears  proper  to  apprize  the  reader  that 
it  was  not  love,  in  the  common  acceptation  of  the  word,  which  in- 
spired these  admirable  eulogies.  The  attachment  of  Cowper  to 
Mrs.  Unwin,  the  Mary  of  the  Poet !  was  an  attachment  perhaps 
unparalleled.  Their  domestic  union,  though  not  sanctioned  by  the 
common  forms  of  life,  was  supported  with  perfect  innocence,  and 
endeared  to  them  both,  by  their  having  struggled  together  through 
a  series  of  sorrow.  A  spectator  of  sensibility,  who  had  contem- 
plated the  uncommon  tenderness  of  their  attention  to  the  wants  and 
infirmities  of  each  other  in  the  decline  of  life,  might  have  said  of 
their  singular  attachment, 

L'Amour  n'a  rien  de  si  tendre, 
Ni  L'Amitie  de  si  doux. 

As  a  connection  so  extraordinary  forms  a  striking  feature  in  the 
history  of  the  Poet,  the  reader  will  probably  be  anxious  to  inves- 
tigate its  origin  and  progress.  It  arose  from  the  folloAving  little 
incident. 

The  countenance  and  depoilment  of  Cowper,  though  they  indi- 
cated his  native  shyness,  had  yet  very  singular  powers  of  attrac- 
tion. On  his  first  appearance  in  one  of  the  churches  at  Hunting- 
don, he  engaged  the  notice  and  respect  of  an  amiable  young  man, 
William  Cawthorne  Unwin,  then  a  student  at  Cambridge,  who, 
having  observed,  after  divine  service,  that  the  interesting  stranger 
was  taking  a  solitary  turn  under  a  row  of  trees,  Avas  irresistably 
led  to  share  his  walk,  and  to  solicit  his  acqviaintance. 

They  were  soon  pleased  with  each  other;  and  tlie  intelligent 
youth,  charmed  with  the  acquisition  of  such  a  friend,  was  eager  to 
communicate  the  treasure  to  his  parents,  who  had  long  resided  in 
Huntingdon. 

Mr.  Unwin,  the  father,  had,  for  some  years,  been  master  of  a 
free-school  in  the  town;  but,  as  he  advanced  in  life,  he  quitted  that 
laborious  situation,  and,  settling  in  a  large  convenient  house,  in  the 
High-Street,  contented  himself  with  a  few  domestic  pupils,  whom 
he  instructed  in  classical  literature. 

This  worthy  Divine,  who  was  now  far  advanced  in  years,  had 
been  Lecturer  to  the  two  Churches  in  Huntingdon,  before  he  ob- 
tained, from  his  College  at  Cambridge,  the  Living  of  Grimston. 
While  he  lived  in  expectation  of  this  preferment,  he  had  attached 
himself  to  a  young  lady  of  lively  talents,  and  remarkably  fond  of. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  10 

reading.  This  lady,  who,  in  the  process  of  time,  and  by  a  scries 
of  singular  events,  became  the  friend  and  guardian  of  Cowpcr, 
■was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Cawthorne,  a  draper  in  Ely.  She  was 
married  to  Mr.  Unwin  on  his  succeeding  to  the  preferment  that  he 
expected  from  his  College,  and  settled  with  him  on  his  Living  of 
Grimston ;  but  not  liking  the  situation  and  society  of  that  seques- 
tered scene,  she  prevailed  on  her  husband  to  establish  himself  in 
the  town  of  Huntingdon,  where  he  was  known  and  respected. 

They  had  resided  there  many  years ;  and  with  their  two  oidy 
children,  a  son  and  a  daughter  (whom  I  remember  to  have  noticed 
at  Cambridge,  in  the  year  1763,  as  a  youth  and  a  damsel  of  coun- 
tenances imcommonly  pleasing),  tliey  formed  a  cheerfiU  and  social 
family,  when  the  younger  Unwin,  described  by  Cowper  as 

"  A  friend. 
Whose  worth  deserves  the  warmest  lay 
That  ever  friendship  penn'd," 

presented  to  his  parents  the  solitary  stranger,  on  whose  retirement 
he  had  benevolently  intruded,  and  whose  welfare  he  became  more 
and  more  anxious  to  promote.  An  event  highly  pleasing  and  com- 
fortable to  Co^x'per  soon  followed  this  introduction:  he  was  affec- 
tionately solicited  by  all  the  Unwins  to  relinquish  his  lonely  lodging, 
and  become  a  part  of  their  family. 

I  am  now  arrived  at  that  period  in  the  personal  history  of  my 
friend,  when  I  am  fortunately  euribled  to  employ  his  own  descriptive 
powers  in  recording  tl'.e  events  and  characters  that  particularly 
interested  him,  and  in  disp1a}ing  the  state  of  his  mind  at  a  remark- 
able season  of  his  checkered  life.  The  following  ai'e  the  most 
early  Letters  of  this  affectionate  writer,  with  which  time  and 
chance,  with  the  kindness  of  his  friends  and  relations,  have  afforded 
me  the  advantage  of  adorning  this  work. 

Among  his  juvenile  intimates  and  correspondents  he  particularly 
regarded  tv/o  gentlemen,  who  devoted  themselves  to  different 
branches  of  the  law,  the  pre'.ent  Lord  Thiirlcjw,  and  Joseph  Hill, 
Esq.  whose  name  appears  in  the  second  volume  cf  Cowpcr's  Poems, 
prefixed  to  a  few  verses  of  exquisite  beauty;  a  brief  epistle,  that 
seems  to  have  more  of  the  genuine  ease,  spirit,  and  moral  gaiety 
of  Horace  than  any  origiuid  epistle  in  the  English  langiiag-e !  Fror,i 
these  two  confidential  associates  of  the  Poet,  in  his  unclouded 
years,  I  expected  materials  for  the  display  of  his  early  genius;  but 
in  the  torrent  of  busy  and  splendid  life,  whirh  bore  the  first  of 
them  to  a  mighty  distance  from  his  less  ambitious  fcUow-studcnt  of 


Se  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

the  Temple,  the  private  letters  and  verses  that  arose  from  thefr 
youthfal  intimacy  have  perished. 

Mr.  Hill  has  kindly  favoured  me  with  a  very  copious  collection 
of  Cowper's  letters  to  himself,  through  a  long  period  of  time ;  and 
although  many  of  them  are  of  a  nature  not  suited  to  publication, 
5^et  many  others  will  illustrate  and  embellish  these  volumes.  The 
steadiness  and  integrity  of  Mr.  Hill's  regard  for  a  person  so  much 
sequestered  from  his  sight,  gives  him  a  peculiar  title  to  stand  first 
among  those  whom  CoAvper  has  honoured  by  addressing  to  them 
his  highly  intevpsting  and  affectionate  letters.  Many  of  these, 
which  I  shall  occasionally  introduce  in  the  parts  of  the  narrative  to 
which  they  belong,  may  tend  to  confirm  a  tnith,  not  unpleasing  to 
the  majority  of  readers,  that  the  temperate  zone  of  moderate  for- 
tune, equally  removed  fi-om  high  and  low  life,  is  most  favourable 
to  the  permanence  of  friendship. 


LETTER  L 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esq.  Cook's  Court,  Carey-Street,  London. 

Huntingdon.^  June  24,  1765. 
Dear  Joe, 

The  only  recompense  I  can  make  you  for  your 
kind  attenticm  to  my  affairs  during  my  illness,  is  to  tell  you  that,  by 
the  mercy  of  God,  I  am  restored  to  perfect  health  both  of  mind 
and  body.  This,  I  believe,  will  give  you  pleasure,  and  I  would 
gladly  do  any  thing  from  which  you  could  receive  it. 

I  left  St.  Alban's  on  the  17th,  and  arrived  that  day  at  Cambridge, 
spent  some  time  there  with  my  brother,  and  came  hither  on  the 
22d.  I  have  a  lodging  that  puts  me  continually  in  mind  of  our 
summer  excvirsions:  we  have  had  many  worse,  and,  except  the 
size  of  it  (which,  however,  is  sufficient  for  a  single  man),  but  few 
better.  I  am  not  quite  alone,  having  brought  a  servant  with  me 
from  St.  Alban's,  who  is  the  very  mirror  of  fidelity  and  affection 
for  his  master.  And  whereas  the  Turkish  Spy  says  he  kept  no 
serv?.nt,  because  he  would  not  have  an  enemy  in  his  house,  I  hired 
mine  because  I  would  have  a  friend.  Men  do  not  usually  bestow 
these  encomiums  on  their  lackeys,  nor  do  they  usually  deserve 
them ;  but  I  have  had  experience  of  mine,  both  in  sickness  and  in 
health,  and  never  saw  his  ftllow. 

The  river  Ouse,  I  forget  how  they  spell  it,  is  the  most  agreeable 
circumstance  m  this  part  of  tlie  world;  at  this  town  it  is,  I  believe, 
as  wide  as  the  Thames  at  Windsor ;  nor  does  tlie  silver  Thames 
lt)etter  deserve  that  epithet,  nor  has  it  more  flowers  upon  its  banks  j 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  21 

these  being  attributes  which,  in  strict  truth,  belong  to  neither. 
Fluellin  would  say  they  arc  as  like  as  my  hngcrs  to  my  fingers, 
and  there  is  salmon  in  both.  It  is  a  noble  stream  to  Ijathe  in,  and 
I  shall  make  that  use  of  it  three  times  a  Aveek,  having  introduced 
myself  to  it  for  the  first  time  this  morning. 

I  beg  you  will  remember  me  to  all  my  fi-iends,  which  is  a  task 
that  will  cost  you  no  great  pains  to  execute — particulai'ly  remember 
me  to  those  of  your  own  liouse,  and  believe  me  / 

Your  very  affectionate 

Wm.  cowper. 


LETTER  II. 
To  Majior  COWPER,  at  the  Park-House,  near  Hartford. 

Huntingdon^   Oct.  18,  1765. 
My  DEAR  Major, 

I  have  neither  lost  the  use  of  my  fingers 
nor  my  memory,  though  my  unaccountable  silence  might  incline 
you  to  suspect  that  I  had  lost  both.  The  history  of  those  things 
which  have,  from  time  to  time,  prevented  my  scribbling,  would  be 
not  only  insipid,  but  extremely  voluminous ;  for  which  reasons  they 
will  not  make  their  appearance  at  present,  nor  probably  at  any  time 
hereafter.  If  my  neglecting  to  write  to  you  were  a  proof  that  I' 
had  never  thought  of  you,  and  that  had  been  really  the  case,  five 
shillings  a  piece  would  have  been  much  too  little  to  give  for  the  sight 
of  such  a  monster !  but  I  am  no  such  monster,  nor  do  I  perceive 
in  myself  the  least  tendency  to  such  a  transformation.  You  may 
recollect  that  I  had  but  very  uncomfortable  expectations  of  the  ac- 
commodation I  should  meet  with  at  Huntingdon.  How  much  better 
is  it  to  take  our  lot,  where  it  shall  please  Providence  to  cast  it, 
without  anxiety!  Had  I  chosen  for  myself,  it  is  impossible  I  could 
have  fixt  upon  a  place  so  agreeable  to  me  in  all  respects.  I  so 
much  dreaded  the  thought  of  having  a  new  acquaintance  to  make, 
Avith  no  other  recommendation  than  that  of  being  a  perfect  stranger, 
that  I  heartily  wished  no  creature  here  might  take  the  least  notice 
of  me.  Instead  of  which,  in  about  two  months  after  my  arri\  al, 
I  became  known  to  all  the  visitable  people  here,  and  do  verily  tliink 
it  the  most  agreeable  neighbourhood  I  ever  saw. 

Here  are  three  families  who  have  received  me  with  the  utmost 
civility,  and  two  in  particular  have  treated  me  with  as  much  cordi- 
ality as  if  their  pedigree  and  mine  had  grown  upon  the  same  sheep- 
skin. Besides  these,  there  are  three  or  four  single  men  wlio  suit 
ray  temper  to  a  hair.  'I'he  town  is  one  of  the  neatest  in  ]'..igland, 
the  country  is  fine  for  several  miles  about  it,  and  tlie  roads,  wluch 


22  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

are  all  turnpike,  and  strike  out  four  or  five  different  ways,  aKC 
perfectly  good  all  the  year  round.  I  mention  this,  latter  circum- 
stance chiefly  because  my  distance  from  Cambridge  has  made  a 
horseman  of  me  at  last,  or  at  least  is  likely  to  do  so.  My  brother 
and  I  meet  every  week,  by  an  alternate  reciprocation  of  intercourse, 
as  Sam  Johnson  would  express  it ;  sometimes  I  get  a  lift  in  a  neigh- 
bour's chaise,  but  generally  ride.  As  to  my  own  personal  condi- 
tion, I  am  much  happier  than  the  day  is  long,  and  sunshine  and 
candle-light  alike  see  me  perfectly  contented.  I  get  books  in  abun- 
dance, as  much  company  as  I  choose,  a  deal  of  comfortable  leisure, 
and  enjoy  better  liealth,  I  think,  than  for  many  years  past.  What 
5s  there  wanting  to  make  me  happy  ?  Nothing,  if  I  can  but  be  as 
thankful  as  I  ought,  and  I  trust  that  he  who  has  bestowed  so  many 
blessings  upon  me  will  give  me  gratitude  to  crown  them  all,  I  beg 
you  will  give  my  love  to  my  dear  cousin  Maria,  and  to  every  body 
at  the  Park.  If  Mrs.  Maitland  is  with  you,  as  I  suspect  by  a  pas- 
sage in  Lady  Hesketh's  letter  to  me,  pray  remember  me  to  her  very 
affectionately ;  and  believe  me,  my  dear  friend,  ever  yours, 

Wm.  COWPER. 


LETTER  TIL 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esq. 

October  25,  1765. 
Bear  Joe, 

I  am  afraid  the  month  of  October  has  proved 
rather  unfavourable  to  the  belle  assemblee  at  Southampton,  high 
■winds  and  continual  rains  being  bitter  enemies  to  that  agreeable 
lounge,  which  you  and  I  are  equally  fond  of.  I  have  very  cordially 
betaken  myself  to  my  books  and  my  fire-side,  and  seldom  leave 
them  unless  merely  for  exercise.  I  have  added  another  family  to 
the  number  of  those  I  was  acquainted  with  when  you  Avere  here. 
Their  name  is  LTnwin — the  most  agreeable  people  imaginaljle,  quite 
sociable,  and  as  free  from  the  ceremonious  civility  of  country  gen- 
tlefolks as  any  I  ever  met  vath.  They  treat  me  more  like  a  near 
relation  than  a  stranger,  and  their  house  is  always  open  to  me. 
The  old  gentleman  can  ies  me  to  Cambridge  in  his  chaise.  He  is 
a  man  of  learning  and  good  sense,  and  as  simple  as  Parson  Adams. 
His  wile  has  a  very  uncommon  understanding,  has  read  much  to 
excellent  purpose,  and  is  more  polite  tlipn  a  dutchess.  The  son, 
who  belongs  to  Cambridge,  is  a  most  amiable  young  man,  and  the 
daughter  quite  of  a  piece  with  the  rest  of  the  family.  They  see  but 
little  company,  which  suits  me  exactly ;  go  when  I  will,  I  find  a 
house  lull  of  peace  and  cordiality  in  aU  its  parts,  and  am  sure  to 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  23 

liear  no  scandal,  but  such  discourse  instead  of  it  as  wc  are  all  the 
better  for.  You  remember  Rousseau's  description  of  an  English 
morning;  such  are  the  mornings  I  spend  with  these  good  people, 
and  the  evenings  differ  from  them  in  nothing,  except  that  they  are 
still  more  snug  and  quieter.  Kow  I  know  them,  I  wonder  that  I 
liked  Huntingdon  so  well  before  I  knew  them,  and  am  apt  to  think 
I  should  find  every  place  disagreeable  that  had  not  an  Unwin  be- 
longing to  it. 

This  incident  convinces  me  of  the  truth  of  an  observation  I  have 
often  made,  that  when  we  circumscribe  our  estimate  of  all  that  is 
clever  within  the  limits  of  our  own  acquaintance  (which  I  at  least 
have  been  always  apt  to  do)  we  are  guilty  of  a  very  uncharitable 
censure  upon  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  of  a  narrowness  of  thinking 
disgracefid  to  ourselves.  Wapping  and  Redriff  may  contain  some 
of  the  most  amiable  persons  living,  and  such  as  one  would  go  to 
Wapping  and  Redriffto  make  acquaintance  with.  You  remember 
Mr.  Gray's  stanza, 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene, 
The  deep  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear ; 
Full  many  a  rose  is  born  to  blusli  unseen, 
And  waste  its  fragrance  on  the  desei*t  air. 

Yours,  dear  Joe, 

W  M.  COWPER. 


LETTER  IV. 
To  Mrs.  COWPER,  at  the  Park-House,  near  Hartford. 
My  dear  Cousin, 

I  am  nrmch  obliged  to  you  for  Pearsall's 
Meditations,  especially  as  it  furnishes  me  with  an  occasion  of  writ- 
ing to  you,  wliich  is  all  I  have  waited  for.  My  friends  must  excuse 
me  if  I  write  to  none  but  tliose  wlio  lay  it  fairly  in  my  way  to  do  so. 
The  inference  I  am  apt  to  draw  from  their  silence  is,  that  they 
wish  me  to  be  silent  too. 

I  have  great  reason,  my  dear  cousin,  to  be  thankful  to  the  graci- 
ous Providence  that  conducted  me  to  this  place.  The  lady  in  Avhose 
house  I  live  is  so  excellent  a  person,  and  regards  me  with  a  iriend- 
ship  so  truly  christian,  that  I  could  almost  fancy  my  own  mother 
restored  to  life  again,  to  compensate  to  me  for  all  tlie  friends  I  have 
lost,  and  all  my  connections  broken.  She  has  a  son  at  Camln'idge, 
in  all  respects  worthy  of  such  a  mother,  the  most  amiable  young 
man  I  ever  ki^.ew.   His  natural  and  acquired  enUo^vments  are  very 


24  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

considerable;  and  as  to  his  virtues,  I  need  only  say  that- he  is  a 
christian.  It  ought  to  be  a  matter  of  daily  thanksgiving  to  me  that 
I  am  admitted  into  the  society  of  such  persons,  and  I  pray  God  to 
make  me,  and  keep  me  worthy  of  them. 

Your  brother  Martin  has  been  very  kind  to  me,  having  wrote  to 
me  twice  in  a  stile  which,  though  it  once  was  irksome  to  me,  to  say 
the  least,  I  now  know  how  to  value.  I  pray  God  to  forgive  me  the 
many  light  things  I  have  both  said  and  thought  of  him  and  his  la- 
bours. Hereafter  I  shall  consider  him  as  a  burning  and  a  shining 
light,  and  as  one  of  those  who,  having  turned  many  to  righteous- 
ness, shall  shine  hereafter,  as  the  stars,  for  ever  and  ever. 

So  much  for  the  state  of  my  heart ;  as  to  my  spirits,  I  am  cheer- 
ful and  happy,  and  having  peace  with  God,  have  peace  within 
myself.  For  the  continuance  of  this  blessing  I  trust  to  him  who 
gives  it,  and  they  who  trust  in  him  shall  never  be  confounded. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Wm.  covvper. 

Huntingdon,  at  the  Rev.  Mr.  Ufiwi?i's,  March  11,  1766. 


LETTER  V. 
To  Mrs.  COWPER,  at  the  Park-House,  Plartford. 

Jfii'il4,  1T66. 
My  dear  Cousin, 

I  agree  with  you  that  letters  are  not  essential 
to  friendship ;  but  they  seem  to  be  a  natural  fruit  of  it  when  they 
are  the  only  intercourse  that  can  be  had.  And  a  friendship  pro- 
ducing no  sensible  effects  is  so  like  indifference,  that  the  appear- 
ance may  easily  deceive  even  an  acute  discerner,  I  retract,  how- 
ever, all  that  I  said  in  my  last  upon  this  subject,  having  reason  to' 
suspect  that  it  proceeded  from  a  principle  which  I  would  discourage 
in  myself  upon  all  occasions,  even  a  pride  that  felt  itself  hurt  upon 
a  mere  suspicion  of  neglect.  I  have  so  much  cause  for  humility, 
and  so  nnich  need  of  it  too,  and  every  little  sneaking  resentment 
is  such  an  enemy  to  it,  that  I  hope  I  shall  never  give  quarter  to  any 
thing  that  appears  in  the  shape  of  sullenness  or  self-consequence 
hereafter.  Alas !  if  my  best  friend,  \A\o  laid  down  his  life  for  me, 
were  to  remember  all  the  instances  in  which  I  have  neglected  him, 
and  to  plead  them  against  me  in  judgment,  where  should  I  hide 
my  guilty  head  in  the  day  of  recompcPise  ?  I  will  pray,  thei-eibre, 
for  blessings  upon  my  friends,  even  though  they  cease  to  be  so,  and 
upon  my  enemies,  though  they  continue  such.  The  dcceitfulness 
of  the  natural  heart  is  hiconceivable:  1  know  well  that  I  passed 
upon  my  friends  for  a  person  at  least  religiously  inclined,  if  not  ac- 


LIFE  OF  CO\^TER.  25 

tually  religious;  and  what  is  more  wonderful,  I  thought  myself  a 
Christian,  when  I  had  no  faith  in  Christ,  when  I  saw  no  heauty  in 
him,  that  I  should  desire  him ;  in  short,  when  I  had  neither  faith 
nor  love,  nor  any  Christian  grace  whatever,  but  a  thousand  seeds 
of  rebellion  instead,  ever  more  springing  up  in  enmity  against  him. 
But  blessed  be  God,  even  the  God  who  is  become  my  salvation. 
The  hail  of  affliction,  and  rebuke  for  sin,  has  swept  away  the  re- 
fuge of  lies.  It  pleased  the  Almighty  in  great  mercy  to  set  all  my 
misdeeds  before  me.  At  length  the  storm  being  past,  a  quiet  and 
peaceful  serenity  of  soul  succeeded,  such  as  ever  attends  the  gifts 
of  lively  faith  in  the  all-sufficient  atonement,  and  the  sweet  sense 
of  mercy  and  pardon  purchased  by  the  blood  of  Christ.  Thus  did 
he  break  me  and  Ijind  me  up ;  thus  did  he  wound  nle,  and  his  hands 
made  me  whole.  My  dear  cou  ;in,  I  make  no  apology  for  enter- 
taining you  with  the  history  of  my  conversion,  because  I  know  you 
to  be  a  Christian  in  the  sterling  import  of  the  appellation.  This  is, 
however,  but  a  very  summary  account  of  the  matter,  neither  would 
a  letter  contain  the  astonishing  particulars  of  it.  If  we  ever  meet 
again  in  this  world,  I  will  relate  them  to  you  by  word  of  mouth ;  if 
not,  they  will  serve  lor  the  subject  of  a  conference  in  the  next ; 
where,  I  doubt  not,  I  shall  remember  and  recoi-d  them  with  a  gra- 
titude better  suited  to  the  subject. 

Yours,  my  dear  cousin,  affectionately, 

Wm.  COWPER. 


LETTER  VI. 
To  Mrs.  COWPER,  at  the  Park-House,  Hartford. 

J/jrillT,  1766. 
My  dear  Cousik, 

As  ill  matters  tinattainable  by  reason,  and 
Unrevealed  in  the  Scripture,  it  is  impossible  to  argue  at  all ;  so  in 
matters  concerning  which  reason  can  only  give  a  probable  guess, 
and  the  Scripture  has  made  no  explicit  discovery,  it  is,  though  not 
impossible  to  argue  at  all,  yet  impossible  to  argue  to  any  certain 
Conclusion.  This  seems  to  me  to  be  the  very  case  with  the  point  in 
question — Reason  is  ablis  to  form  many  plausilile  conjectures  con- 
cerning the  possibility  of  our  knowing  each  other  in  a  future  state, 
and  the  Scripture  has,  here  and  there,  favoured  us  with  an  expres- 
sion that  looks  at  least  like  a  slight  intimation  of  it;  but  because  a 
conjecture  can  never  amount  to  a  proof,  and  a  slight  intimation 
cannot  be  construed  into  a  positive  assertion,  therefore  I  think  we 
can  never  come  to  any  absolute  conclusion  upon  the  subject.  We 
may,  indeed,  reason  about  the  plausibility  of  our  conjectures,  and 

VOL.  I.  E 


26  LIFfi  OF  COWPER. 

we  may  discuss,  with  great  industry,  and  shrewdness  of  argument, 
those  passages  in  the  Scripture  which  seem  to  favour  the  opinion ; 
but  strll  no  certain  means  having  been  afforded  us,  no  certain  end 
can  be  attained ;  and  after  all  that  can  be  said,  it  will  still  be  doubt* 
ful  whether  we  shall  know  each  other  or  not. 

As  to  arguments  founded  upon  human  reason  only,  it  would  be 
easy  to  muster  up  a  much  greater  number  on  the  affirmative  side 
of  the  question  than  it  would  be  worth  my  while  to  write  of  yours 
to  read.  Let  lis  see,  therefore,  what  the  Scripture  says,  or  seems 
to  say,  towards  the  proof  of  it ;  and  of  this  kind  of  argument  also 
I  shall  insert  but  a  few  of  those  which  seem  to  me  to  be  the  fairest 
and  clearest  for  the  purpose :  for,  after  all,  a  disputant  on  either 
side  of  this  question  is  in  danger  of  that  censure  of  our  blessed' 
Lord's,  "  Ye  do  err,  not  knowing  the  Scripture,  nor  the  power  of 
God." 

As  to  parables,  I  know  it  has  been  said,  in  the  dispute  Concern- 
ing the  intermediate  state,  that  they  are  not  argumentative ;  but 
this  having  been  controverted  by  very  wise  and  good  men,  and  the 
parable  of  Dives  and  Lazarus  having  been  used  by  such,  to  prove 
an  intermediate  state,  I  see  not  why  it  may  not  be  as  fairly  used  for 
the  proof  of  any  other  matter,  which  it  seems  fairly  to  imply.  In 
this  parable  we  see  that  Dives  is  repi'esented  as  knowing  Lazarus, 
and  Abraham  as  knowing  them  both ;  and  the  discourse  between 
them  is  entirely  concerning  their  respective  characters  and  cir- 
cumstances upon  earth.  Here,  therefore,  our  Saviour  seems  to 
countenance  the  notion  of  a  mutual  knowledge  and  recollection,  and 
if  a  soul  that  has  perished  shall  know  th6  soul  that  is  saved,  surely 
the  heirs  of  salvation  shall  know  and  recollect  eaCh  other. 

In  the  first  Epistle  to  the  Thessalonians,  the  2d  chapter,  and  19th 
verse,  St.  Paul  says,  "  What  is  our  hope,  or  joy,  or  Crown  of  re- 
joicing ?  Are  not  even  ye  in  the  presence  of  cur  Lord  Jesus  Christ 
at  his  coming?     For  ye  are  ovu'  glory  and  our  joy." 

As  to  the  hope  which  the  Apostle  has  formed  concerning  them,- 
he  himself  rrfers  the  accomplishment  of  it  to  the  coming  of  Christ, 
meaning  that  then  he  should  receive  the  recompense  of  his  labours 
in  their  behalf:  his  joy  and  glory  he  refei's  likewise  to  the  same 
period,  both  which  would  result  from  the  sight  of  such  numbers 
redeemed  by  the  blessing  of  God  upon  his  ministration,  when  he 
should  present  them  before  the  great  Judge,  and  say  in  the  words 
of  a  greater  than  himself,  "  Lo !  I,  and  the  children  whom  thou  hast 
given  me."  This  seems  to  imply  that  the  Apostle  should  know 
the  converts,  and  the  converts  the  Apostle,  at  least  at  the  day  of 
judgment;  and  if  then,  why  not  afterwards? 

See  also  the  4th  chapter  of  that  Epistle,  13,  14, 16,  which  I  have 


LIFE  OF  COWnPER.  2/ 

not  room  to  transcribe.  Here  the  Apostle  comforts  them  under 
their  affliction,  for  their  deceased  brethren,  exhorting  them  "  Not 
to  sorrow  as  without  hope:"  and  what  is  the  hope  by  wliich  he 
teaches  them  to  support  their  spirits  ?  Even  this,  '•  That  them 
which  sleep  in  Jesus  shall  God  bring  with  him."  In  other  words, 
and  by  a  fair  paraphrase  surely,  telling  them  they  are  only  taken 
4rom  them  for  a  season,  and  that  they  should  receive  them  at  the 
resurrection. 

If  you  can  take  off  the  force  of  these  texts,  my  dear  cousin,  you 
will  go  a  great  way  towards  shaking  my  opinion ;  if  not,  I  think 
they  must  go  a  great  way  towards  shaking  yours. 

The  reason  why  I  did  not  send  you  my  opinion  of  Pearshall  was, 
because  I  had  not  then  read  him.  I  have  read  him  since,  and  like 
him  much,  especially  the  latter  part  of  him ;  but  you  have  wlictted 
my  curiosity  to  see  the  last  letter  by  tearing  it  out.  Unless  you  can 
give  me  a  good  reason  why  I  should  not  see  it,  I  shall  inquire  for 
the  book  the  next  time  I  go  to  Cambridge.  Pei-haps  I  may  be  par- 
tial to  Hervey  for  the  sake  of  his  other  writings,  but  I  cannot  give 
Pearshall  the  preference  to  him,  for  I  think  him  one  of  tlie  most 
.scriptural  writers  in  the  world. 

Yours, 

Wm.  CQWPER, 


LETTER  VII. 
To  Mrs.  GOWPER,  at  the  Park-House,  Hartford. 

April  18,  1/66. 
My  dear  Cousin, 

Having  gone  as  far  as  I  thought  needful  to 
justify  the  opinion  of  our  meeting  and  knowing  each  other  hereafter, 
I  find,  upon  reflection,  that  I  have  done  but  half  my  business,  and 
tliat  one  of  the  questions  you  proposed  remains  entirely  unconsi- 
dered, viz.  "  Whether  the  things  of  our  present  state  will  not  be 
of  too  low  and  mean  a  nature  to  engage  our  thoughis,  or  make  a 
l)art  of  our  communications  in  Heaven." 

The  common  and  ordinary  occurrences  of  life  no  doubt,  and  even 
the  ties  of  kindred,  and  of  all  temporal  interests,  will  be  entirely 
discarded  from  amongst  that  happy  society,  and  possibly  c\  en  the 
remembrance  of  them  done  away.  But  it  does  not,  tlicrefore,  fol- 
low that  our  spiritual  concerns,  even  in  this  life,  will  be  forgotten ; 
ncitlicr  do  I  think  that  they  can  ever  appear  tiiiling  to  us  in  any 
the  most  distant  pei-iod  of  eternity.  God,  as  you  say  in  rcll'rcnce 
to  the  Scripture,  will  be  all  in  all.  Hut  docs  not  that  expression 
mean,  that  being  ^'Amittcd  to  so  near  an  approach  to  our  heavenly 


2&  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

Father  and  Redeemer,  our  whole  nature,  the  soul,  and  all  its  facul- 
ties, "will  be  employed  in  praising  and  adoring  him  ?  Doubtless, 
liowe\'er,  this  will  be  the  case ;  and  if  so,  will  it  not  furnis,h  out  a 
glorious  theme  of  thanksgiving  to  recollect  "  The  rock  whence  we 
wei'e  hewn,  and  the  hole  of  the  pit  whence  we  were  digged?"  To 
recollect  the  time  when  our  faith,  which,  under  the  tuition  and  nur- 
ture of  the  Holy  Spirit,  has  produced  such  a  plentiful  harvest  of 
immortal  bliss,  was  as  a  grain  of  mustard-seed,  small  in  itself,  pro- 
mising but  little  fruit,  and  producing  less?  To  recollect  the  various 
attempts  that  were  made  upon  it  by  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the 
devil,  and  its  various  triumphs  over  all,  by  the  assistance  of  God, 
through  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ?  At  present,  whatever  our  convic- 
tions may  be  of  the  sinfulness  and  corruption  of  our  nature,  we  can 
make  but  a  very  imperfect  estimate  either  of  our  weakness  or  cur 
guilt.  Then,  no  doubt,  we  shall  understand  the  full  value  of  the 
wonderful  salvation  wrought  out  for  us :  and  it  seems  reasonable  to 
suppose,  that,  in  order  to  form  a  just  idea  of  our  redemption,  we 
shall  be  able  to  form  a  just  one  of  the  danger  we  have  escaped; 
when  we  know  how  weak  and  frail  we  were,  surely  we  shall  be  more 
able  to  render  due  praise  and  honour  to  his  strength  who  fought 
for  us ;  when  we  know  completely  the  hatefulness  of  sin  in  the  sight 
of  God,  and  how  deeply  we  were  tainted  by  it,  we  shall  know  how 
to  value  the  blood  by  which  we  are  cleansed  as  we  ought.  The 
twenty- four  Elders  in  the  5th  of  the  Revelations,  give  glory  to  God 
for  their  redemption,  out  of  every  kindred,  and  tongue,  and  people, 
and  nation.  This  surely  implies  a  retrospect  to  their  respective 
conditions  upon  earth,  and  that  each  remembei-ed  cut  of  what  par- 
ticular kindred  and  nation  he  had  been  redeemed;  end  if  so,  then 
surely  the  minutest  circumstance  of  their  rederrptirn  did  net  escape 
their  memory.  They  who  triumph  over  the  I  east  in  the  15th 
chapter,  sing  the  Song  of  Moses,  the  servant  of  Grd :  and  what  was 
that  Song?  A  sublime  recoi'd  cf  Israel's  deliverance,  and  the  de- 
struction of  her  enemies  in  the  Red-Sea,  typical  no  dcubt  of  the 
Song  which  the  redeemed  in  Sim  shall  sing  to  celebrate  their  own 
salvation,  and  the  defeat  of  their  spiritual  enemies.  This  again 
implies  a  recollection  of  the  dangers  thev  had  before  encountered, 
and  the  supplies  of  strength  and  ardour  they  had  in  every  emei-- 
gency  received  from  the  great  Delivei'er  rut  of  all.  These  quota- 
tions do  not  indeed  prove  that  their  warfare  upon  earth  inckides  a 
part  cf  their  converse  with  each  other,  but  they  preve  that  it  is  a 
theme  not  unworthy  to  be  heard  even  before  the  throne  of  God, 
?ind  therefore  it  cannot  be  unfit  for  reciprocal  communication. 

But  you  doubt  whether  there  is  a??t/  communication  between  the 
blessed  at  all,  neither  do  I  recollect  any  Scripture  that  proves  it, 


LIFE  OF  eOWPER,  29 

OV  that  bears  any  relation  to  the  subject.  But  reason  seems  to  re- 
quire it  so  peremptorily,  that  a  society  without  socitil  intercourse 
seems  to  be  a  solecism,  and  a  contradiction  in  terms  and  the  in- 
habitants of  those  regions  are  called,  you  knr^w,  in  Scripture,  an 
innumerable  company,  and  an  assembly,  which  seems  to  convey 
the  idea  of  society  as  clearly  as  the  word  itself.  Human  testimony 
weighs  but  little  in  matters  of  this  sort ;  but  let  it  h  ive  all  the  weight 
it  can :  I  know  no  greater  names  in  divinity  than  Watts  and  Dod- 
dridge ;  they  were  both  of  this  opinion,  and  I  send  you  the  words 
of  the  latter: 

"  Our  companions  in  glory  may  probably  assist  us  by  their  wise 
and  good  observations  when  we  come  to  make  the  Providence  of 
God,  here  upon  earth,  under  the  guidance  and  direction  of  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ,  the  subject  of  our  mutual  converse," 

Thus,  my  dear  cousin,  I  have  spread  out  my  reasons  be  ore  you 
for  an  opinion  which,  whether  admitted  or  denied,  affects  not  the 
state  or  interest  of  our  soul : — May  our  Creator,  Redeemer,  and 
Sanctifier,  conduct  us  into  his  own  Jerusalem,  where  there  shall  be 
no  night,  neither  any  darkness  at  all,  where  we  shall  be  free  even 
from  innocent  error,  and  perfect  in  the  light  of  the  knowledge  of 
ijod  in  the  face  of  Jesus  Christ. 

Yours  faithfully, 

Wm.  cowper. 


LETTER  VIIL 
To  Mrs.  COWPER,  at  the  Park-House,  Hartford. 

Huntingdon,  Sept,  3,  1766. 
My  dear  Cousin, 

It  is  reckoned,  you  know,  a  great  achieve- 
ment to  silence  an  opponent  in  disputation,  and  your  silence  was 
of  so  long  continuance,  that  I  might  well  begin  to  please  myself 
with  the  apprehension  of  having  accomplished  so  arduous  a  matter. 
To  be  serious,  however,  I  am  not  s^rrythat  whit  I  have  said 
concerning  our  knowledge  of  e^idi  other  in  a  future  state,  has  a 
little  inclined  you  to  the  affirmative :  For  though  the  redeemed  of 
the  Lord  shall  be  sure  of  being  as  happy  in  th.t  state  :s  infinite 
power,  employed  by  infinite  goodness,  can  make  them,  and  there- 
fore it  may  seem  immaterial  whether  we  shall  cr  shall  not  recol- 
lect each  other  hereafter;  yet  our  present  happiness  at  least  is  a 
little  interested  in  the  question.  A  parent,  a  friend,  a  wife,  must 
needs,  I  think,  feel  a  Httle  heart-ache  at  the  thought  of  an  eternal 
separation  from  the  oljjccts  of  her  regard:  and  n^t  to  know  theni 
v/hen  she  meets  them  in  another  life,  or  never  to  meet  them  at  all,- 


so  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

amounts,  though  not  altogether,  yet  nearly  to  the  same  thing.  Re- 
member them,  I  think,  she  needs  must.  To  hear  that  they  are 
happy  will  indeed  be  no  small  addition  to  her  o^vn  felicity ;  but  to 
see  them  so  will  surely  be  a  greater.  Thus,  at  least,  it  appears  to 
our  present  human  apprehension;  consequently,  therefore,  to  think 
that  when  we  leave  them,  we  lose  them  for  ever,  that  we  must 
remain  eternally  ignorant  whether  they  that  were  flesh  of  our  flesh, 
and  bone  of  our  bone,  partake  with  us  of  celestial  glory,  or  are 
disinherited  of  their  heavenly  portion,  must  shed  a  dismal  gloom 
o\^er  all  our  present  connections.  For  my  own  part,  this  life  is 
such  a  momentary  thing,  and  all  its  interests  have  so  shrunk  in  my 
estimation,  since,  by  the  grace  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  I  became 
attentive  to  the  things  of  another,  that,  like  a  worm  in  the  bud  of 
all  my  friendships  and  affections,  this  very  thought  would  eat  out 
the  heart  of  them  all,  had  I  a  thousand ;  and  were  their  date  to 
terminate  with  this  life,  I  think  I  should  have  no  inclination  to  cul- 
tivate and  improve  such  a  fugitive  business.  Yet  friendship  is  ne- 
cessary to  our  happiness  here,  and  built  upon  Christian  principles, 
upon  whidi  only  it  can  stand,  is  a  thing  even  of  religious  sanction : 
for  what  is  that  love  which  the  Holy  Spirit,  speaking  by  St.  John, 
so  much  inculcates,  but  friendship  ?  The  only  love  which  deserves 
the  name ;  a  love  which  can  toil,  and  watch,  and  deny  itself,  and 
go  to  death  for  its  brother.  Woi-ldly  friendships  are  a  poor  weed 
compared  with  this,  and  even  this  union  of  spirit,  in  the  bond  of 
peace,  would  suffer  in  my  mind  at  least,  could  I  think  it  were  only 
coeval  with  our  earthly  mansions.  It  may  possibly  argue  great 
■weakness  in  me,  in  this  instance,  to  stand  so  much  in  need  of  future 
hopes  to  support  me  in  the  discharge  of  present  duty.  But  so  it  is: 
I  am  far,  I  know,  very  far,  from  being  perfect  in  Christian  love, 
or  any  other  divine  attainment,  and  am  therefore  unwilling  to 
forego  whatever  may  help  me  in  my  progress. 

You  are  so  kind  as  to  inquire  after  my  health,  for  which  reason 
I  must  tell  you,  what  otherwise  would  not  be  worth  mentioning, 
that  I  have  lately  I^een  just  enough  indisposed  to  convince  me  that 
not  only  human  life  in  general,  but  mine  in  particular,  hangs  by  a 
slender  thread.  I  am  stout  enough  in  appearance,  yet  a  little  ill- 
ness demolishes  me.  I  have  had  a  severe  shake,  and  the  building 
is  not  so  firm  as  it  was.  But  I  bless  God  for  it  with  all  my  heart. 
If  the  inner  man  be  but  strengtliened  day  by  day,  as  I  hope,  imder 
the  renewing  influences  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  it  will  be  no  matter 
how  soon  the  outward  is  dissolved.  He  who  has  in  a  manner  raised 
me  fi-om  the  dead,  in  a  literal  sense,  has  given  me  the  grace,  I  trust, 
to  l)e  ready  at  the  shoi'test  notice,  to  surrender  up  to  him  that  life 
V  hich  I  have  twice  received  from  him.    Whether  I  live  or  die,  I 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  Sl 

desire  it  may  be  to  his  glory,  and  it  must  be  to  my  happiness.  I 
thank.  God  that  I  have  those  amongst  my  kindred  to  whom  I  can 
write  without  reserve  of  sentiments  upon  this  subject,  as  I  do  to 
you.  A  letter  upon  any  other  subject  is  more  insipid  to  me  than 
ever  my  task  was  when  a  school-boy ;  and  I  say  not  this  in  vain 
glory,  God  forbid !  but  to  show  you  what  the  Almighty,  whose  name 
I  am  vmworthy  to  mention,  has  done  for  me,  the  chief  of  sinners. 
Once  he  was  a  terror  to  me ;  and  his  service,  O  what  a  weariness 
it  was !  Now  I  can  say  I  love  him  and  his  holy  name,  and  am  never 
so  happy  as  when  I  speak  of  his  mercies  to  me. 

Yours,  dear  cousin, 

Wm.  COWPER. 


LETTER  IX, 
To  Mi-s.  COWPER,  at  the  Park-House,  Hartford. 

Huntingdon^  Oct.  20,  1766. 
My  dear  Cousin, 

I  am  very  sorry  for  poor  Chai^les's  illness, 
and  hope  you  will  soon  have  cause  to  thank  God  for  his  complete 
recovery.  We  have  an  epidemical  fever  in  this  country  likewise, 
which  leaves  behind  it  a  continual  sighing,  almost  to  suffocation ; 
not  that  I  have  seen  any  instance  of  it,  for  blessed  be  God  our  fa- 
mily have  hitherto  escaped  it,  but  such  was  the  account  I  heard  of 
it  this  morning. 

I  am  obliged  to  you  for  the  interest  you  take  in  my  welfare,  and 
for  your  inquiring  so  particularly  after  the  manner  in  which  my 
time  passes  here.  As  to  amusements,  I  mean  what  the  world  calls 
such,-  we  have  none :  the  place  indeed  swarms  with  them,  and  cards 
and  dancing  are  the  professed  business  of  almost  all  the  gentle  in- 
habitants of  Huntingdon.  We  refuse  to  take  part  in  them,  or  to 
be  accessaries  to  this  way  of  miirdering  our  time,  and  by  so  doing 
have  acquired  the  name  of  Method'sts.  Having  told  you  how  we 
do  not  spend  our  time,  I  will  next  say  how  we  do.  We  breakfast 
commonly  between  eight  and  nine;  till  eleven  we  read  either  the 
Scripture,  or  the  Sermons  of  some  faithful  preacher  of  these  holy 
mysteries :  at  eleven  we  attend  divine  service,  which  is  performed 
here  twice  every  day ;  and  from  twelve  to  three  we  sepai-atc,  and 
amuse  ourselves  as  wc  please.  During  tliat  hiterval  I  either  read 
in  my  own  apartment,  or  walk,  or  ride,  or  work  in  the  garden. 
We  seldom  sit  an  hour  after  dinner,  but,  if  the  weather  permits, 
adjourn  to  the  garden,  where,  with  Mrs.  L^nwin  and  her  son,  I 
have  generally  the  pleasure  of  religio\is  conversation  till  tea-time. 
If  it  rain<;.  or  is  too  windv  For  walking-,  wc  cither  converse  withire 


S2  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

doors,  cr  sing  some  hymns  of  Martin's  collection,  aAd,  by  the  help 
of  Mrs.  Un  win's  harpsichord,  make  up  a  tolefab  e  concert,  in  which 
our  hearts,  I  l\ope,  are  the  best  and  most  musical  performers. 
After  tea  we  sally  forth  to  walk  in  good  earnest.  Mrs.  Unwin  is  a 
jgood  walker,  and  we  have  generally  travelled  about  four  miles  be- 
fore we  see  home  again.  \Vhen  the  days  are  short,  we  make  this 
excursion  in  the  formel*  part  of  the  day,  between  church-time  and 
dinner.  At  night  we  read  and  converse  as  before,  till  supper,  and 
commonly  finish  the  evening  either  with  hymns -or  a  sermon;  and, 
last  of  all,  the  family  are  called  to  prayers.  I  need  not  tell  you, 
that  such  a  life  as  this  is  consistent  with  the  utmost  cheerfulness, 
accordingly  we  are  all  happy,  and  dwell  together  in  unity  as  bre- 
thren. Mrs.  Unwin  has  almost  a  maternal  aiFection  for  me,  and  I 
have  something  very  like  a  filial  one  for  her,  and  her  son  and  I  are 
brothers.  Blessed  be  the  God  of  our  salvation  for  such  compa- 
nions, and  for  such  a  life ;  above  all,  for  an  heart  to  like  it. 

I  have  had  many  anxious  thoughts  about  taking  orders,  and  I 
believe  every  new  convert  is  apt  to  think  himself  called  upon  for 
that  purpose ;  but  it  has  pleased  God,  by  means  which  there  is  no 
need  to  particularize,  to  give  me  full  satisfaction  as  to  the  propriety 
of  declining  it:  indeed,  they  who  have  the  least  idea  of  what  I  have 
suffered  from  the  dread  of  public  exhibitions,  will  readily  excuse 
my  never  attempting  them  hereafter.  In  the  mean  time,  if  it  please 
the  Almighty,  I  may  be  an  instrument  of  turning  many  to  the  truth 
in  a  private  way,  and  hope  that  my  endeavours  in  this  way  have 
not  been  entirely  unsuccessful.  Had  I  the  zeal  of  Moses,  I  should 
want  an  Aaron  to  be  my  spokesman. 

Yours  ever,  my  dear  cousin, 

Wm.  COWPER. 


LETTER  X. 
To  Mrs.  COWPER,  at  the  Park-House,  Hartford. 

March  11,  1767^ 
My  dear  Cousin, 

To  find  those  whom  I  love  clearly  and  strongly 
persuaded  of  Evangelical  truth,  gives  me  a  pleasure  superior  to  any 
that  this  world  can  afford  me.  Judge  then  whether  your  letter,  m 
which  the  body  and  substance  of  a  saving  faith  is  so  evidently  set 
forth,  could  meet  with  a  lukewarm  reception  at  my  hands,  or  be 
entertained  with  indifference !  Would  you  know  the  true  reason  of 
tny  long  silence  ?  Conscious  that  my  religious  principles  are  gene- 
rally excepted  against,  and  that  the  conduct  they  produce,  where- 
ever  they  are  heartily  maintained,  is  still  more  the  object  erf  disap- 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  »3 

probation  than  those  principles  themselves;  and  remembering  that 
I  had  made  both  the  one  and  the  other  known  to  you,  without  hav- 
ing any  clear  assurance  that  our  faith  in  Jesus  w;;s  of  the  same 
stamp  and  character,  I  could  not  help  thinking  it  possible  that  you 
might  disappi'ove  both  my  sentiments  and  practice ;  that  you  might 
think  the  one  unsupported  by  Scripture,  and  the  other  whimsical 
and  unnecessarily  strict  and  rigorous,  and,  consequently,  would  be 
rather  pleased  with  the  suspension  of  a  correspondence,  which  a 
different  way  of  thinking  upon  so  momxntous  a  subject  as  that  we 
wrote  upon,  was  likely  to  render  tedious  and  irksome  to  you. 

I  have  told  you  the  truth  from  my  heart ;  forgive  me  these  inju- 
rious suspicions,  and  never  imagine  that  I  shall  hear  from  you  upon 
this  delightful  theme  without  a  real  joy,  or  without  prayer  to  God 
to  prosper  you  in  the  way  of  his  truth,  his  sanctifying  and  saving 
truth.  The  book  you  mention  lies  now  upon  my  table.  Marshal 
is  an  old  acquaintance  of  mine ;  I  have  both  read  him  and  heard 
him  read  with  pleasure  and  edification.  The  doctrines  he  maintains 
are,  under  the  influence  of  the  Spirit  of  Christ,  the  very  life  of  my 
soul,  and  the  soul  of  all  my  happiness;  tint  Jesus  is  a. present  Sa- 
viour from  the  guilt  of  ?in  l)y  his  most  precious  blood,  and  from  the 
power  of  it  by  his  Spirit ;  that  corrupt  and  wretched  in  ourselves, 
in  him,  and  in  him  only,  we  are  complete;  that  being  united  to 
Jesus  by  a  lively  faith,  we  have  a  solid  and  eternal  interest  in  his 
obedience  and  sufferings,  to  justify  us  before  the  face  of  our  hea- 
venly Father;  and  that  all  this  inestimable  treasure,  the  earnest  of 
which  is  in  grace,  and  its  consummation  in  glory,  is  given,  freely 
given  to  us  of  God;  in  short,  that  he  hath  opened  the  kingdom  of 
Heaven  to  all  believej's.  These  are  the  truths  which,  by  the  grace 
of  God,  shall  ever  be  dearer  to  me  than  life  itself;  shall  ever  be 
placed  next  my  heart  as  the  throne  whereon  the  Saviour  himself 
shall  sit,  to  sway  all  its  motions,  and  reduce  that  world  of  iniquity 
and  rebellion  to  a  state  of  filial  and  affectionate  obedience  to  the 
will  of  the  most  Holy. 

These,  my  dear  cousin,  are  the  truths  to  which  by  nature  we 
are  enemies — they  debase  the  sinner,  and  exalt  the  Saviour  to  a 
degree  which  the  pride  of  our  hearts  (till  almighty  grace  subdues 
them)  is  determined  never  to  allow.  May  the  Almighty  reveal  his 
Son  in  our  hearts,  continually  more  and  more,  and  teach  us  to  in- 
crease in  love  towards  him  continually,  for  having  give7i  us  tlie 
unspeakable  riches  of  Christ. 

Yours  faithfully, 

Wm.  COWPER. 


$4.  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

LETTER  XI. 
To  Mrs.  COWPER,  at  the  Park-House,  Hartford. 
My  dear  Cousin,  March  14,  176T^ 

I  just  add  a  line  by  way  of  Postscript  to 
my  last,  to  apprize  you  of  the  arrival  of  a  very  dear  friend  of 
mine  at  the  Park  on  Friday  next,  the  son  of  Mr.  Unwin,  whom  I 
have  desired  to  call  on  you  in  his  way  from  London  to  Huntingdon. 
If  you  knew  him  as  well  as  I  do,  you  would  love  him  as  much.  But 
I  leave  the  young  man  to  speak  for  himself,  which  he  is  very  able 
to  do.  He  is  ready  possessed  of  an  answer  to  every  question  you 
can  possibly  ask  concerning  me,  and  knows  my  whole  story.)  from 
first  to  last.  I  give  you  this  previous  notice,  because  I  know  you 
are  not  fond  of  strange  faces,  and  because  I  thought  it  would,  in 
some  degree,  save  him  the  pain  of  announcing  himself. 

I  am  become  a  great  florist  and  shrub  doctor.  If  the  Major  can 
make  up  a  small  packet  of  seeds  that  will  make  a  figure  in  a  gar- 
den, where  we  have  little  else  besides  jessamine  and  honeysuckle ; 
such  a  packet  I  mean  as  may  be  put  in  one's  fob,  I  will  promise  to 
take  great  care  of  them,  as  I  ought  to  value  natives  of  the  Park» 
They  must  not  be  such,  however,  as  require  great  skill  in  the  ma- 
nagement, for  at  present  I  have  no  skill  to  spare. 

I  think  Marshal  one  of  the  best  writers,  and  the  most  spiritual 
expositor  of  Scripture,  I  ever  read.  I  admire  the  strength  of  hia 
argument,  and  the  clearness  of  his  reasonings  upon  those  parts  oi' 
our  most  holy  Religion  which  are  generally  least  imderstood  (even 
by  real  Christians)  as  master-pieces  of  the  kind.  His  section  upon 
the  union  of  the  soul  with  Christ  is  an  inst2.nce  of  what  I  mean,  in 
which  he  has  spoken  of  a  most  mysterious  truth  with  admirable 
perspicuity,  and  with  great  g-ood  sense,  making  it  all  the  while  sub- 
servient to  his  main  piu'portj  of  proving  holiness  to  be  the  fruit  and 
effect  of  faith. 

I  subjoin  thus  much  upon  that  author,  because,  tliough  you  de. 
sire  my  opinion  of  him,  I  remember  that  in  my  last  I  rather  left 
you  to  find  it  out  by  inference  than  expressed  it  as  I  ought  to  have 
done.  I  never  met  with  a  man  who  understood  the  plan  of  salva'. 
tion  better,  or  was  more  happy  in  explaining  it. 

LETTER  XII. 
To  Mrs.  COWPER,  at  the  Park-House,  Hartfoixl. 

Huntingdon,  April  3,  1767. 
My  dear  Cousin,  -T^y 

You  sent  my  friend  Unwin  home  to  us 
charmed  Avith  your  kind  reception  of  him,  and  with  evexy  thing  he 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  33 

saw  at  the  Park.  Shall  I  once  more  give  you  a  peep  into  my  vile 
and  deceitful  Heart  ?  What  motive  do  you  think  lay  at  the  bottom 
of  my  conduct  when  I  desired  him  to  call  upon  you?  I  did  not  sus- 
pect at  first  that  pride  and  vain-glory  had  any  share  in  it,  but 
q\iickly  after  I  had  recommended  the  visit  to  him  I  discovered  in 
tJiat  fruitful  soil  the  very  root  of  the  matter.  You  know  I  am  a 
stranger  here  ;  all  such  are  suspected  characters,  unless  they  bring 
their  credentials  with  them.  To  this  moment,  I  believe,  it  is  mat- 
ter of  speculation  in  the  place  whence  I  came,  and  to  whom  I 
belong. 

Though  my  friend,  you  may  suppose,  before  I  was  admitted  an 
inmate  here,  was  satisfied  that  I  was  not  a  mere  vagabond,  and 
has  since  that  time  received  more  convincing  proofs  of  my  s/ionsi- 
bility,  yet  I  could  not  resist  the  opportunity  of  furnishing  him  with 
ocular  demonstration  of  it,  by  introducing  him  to  one  of  my  most 
splendid  connections;  that  when  he  hears  me  called  that  fellow 
Cofvjicr^  which  has  happened  heretofore,  he  may  be  able,  upon 
unquestionable  evidence,  to  assert  my  gentlemanhood,  and  relieve 
me  from  the  weight  of  that  opprobrious  appellation.     Oh  Pride, 
Pride !  it  deceives  with  tlie  subtlety  of  a  serpent,  and  seems  to 
walk  erect  though  it  crawls  upon  the  earth.     How  will  it  twist 
and  twine  itself  about  to  get  from  under  the  Cross,  which  it  is  the 
glory  of  our  Christian  calling  to  be  able  to  bear  with  patience  and 
good  will.    They  who  can  guess  at  the  heart  of  a  stranger,  and  you 
especially,  who  are  of  a  compassionate  temper,  will  be  more  ready 
perhaps  to  excuse  me  in  this  instance  than  I  can  be  to  excuse 
myself.     But  in  good  truth  it  was  abominable  pride  of  heart,  in- 
dignation and  vanity,  and  deserves  no  better  name.     How  should 
such  a  creature  be  admitted  into  those  pure  and  sinless  mansions 
where  nothing  shall  enter  that  defileth,  did  not  the  Blood  of  Christ, 
applied  by  the  hand  of  Faith,  take  aAvay  the  guilt  of  sin,  and  leave 
no  spot  or  stain  behind  it  ?    Oh  what  continual  need  have  I  of  an 
Almighty,  all-sufficient  Saviour  ?  I  am  glad  you  are  acquainted  so 
particularly  with  all  the  circumstances  of  my  story,  for  I  kno\» 
tliat  your  secrecy  and  discretion  may  be  trusted  with  any  thing. 
A  thread  of  mercy  run  through  all  the  intricate  maze  of  those 
afflictive  providences,   so  mysterious  to  myself  at  the  time,  and 
v/hich  must  ever  remain  so  to  all  who  will  not  see  wliat  was  tlie 
great  design  of  them :   at  the  judgment  seat  of  Christ  the  whole 
shall  be  laid  open.     How  is  the  rod  of  iron  changed  into  a  sceptre 
of  love! 

I  thank  you  for  the  seeds;  I  have  committed  some  of  each  sort 
to  the  grjun'l,  Avhence  they  will  soon  spring  up  like  so  many  me* 
pientos  ip  remiud  me  of  my  friends  at  the  Park. 


Se  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

LETTER  XIIL 
To  Mrs.  COWPER,  at  the  Park-House,  Hartford. 

Huntingdon^  July  13,  l/ST* 
My  dear  Cousin, 

The  newspaper  has  told  you  the  truth, ' 
Poor  Mr.  Unwin,  being  flung  from  his  horse,  as  he  was  going  to 
his  church  on  Sunday  morning,  received  a  dreadful  fracture  on  the 
back  part  of  his  scull,  under  which  he  languished  till  Thursday 
evening,  and  then  died.  This  awful  dispensation  has  left  an  im- 
pression on  our  spirits  which  will  not  presently  be  worn  off.  He 
died  in  a  poor  cottage,  to  which  he  was  carried  immediately  after 
his  fall,  about  a  mile  from  home,  and  his  body  could  not  be  brought 
to  his  house  till  the  spirit  was  gone  to  him  who  gave  it.  May  it  be 
a  lesson  to  us  to  watch,  since  we  know  not  the  day  nor  the  hour 
when  our  Lord  cometh. 

The  effect  of  it  upon  my  circumstances  will  only  be  a  change  of 
the  place  of  my  abode:  for  I  shall  still,  by  God's  leave,  continue 
with  Mrs.  UnAvin,  whose  behaviour  to  me  has  always  been  that  of 
a  mother  to  a  son.  We  know  not  yet  where  we  shall  settle,  but  we 
trust  that  the  Lord,  whom  we  seek,  will  go  before  us,  and  prepare 
a  rest  for  us.  We  have  employed  our  friend  Haweis,  Dr.  Conyers, 
of  Helmsley,  in  Yorkshire,  and  Mr.  Newton,  of  Olney,  to  look 
out  for  us,  but  at  present  are  entirely  igncr  mt  under  which  of  the 
three  we  shall  settle,  or  whether  under  either.  I  have  wrote  to 
my  aunt  Madan  to  desire  Msrtin  to  as  ist  us  with  his  inquiries.  It 
is  probable  we  sha^U  stay  here  till  Michaelmas. 


LETTER  XrV. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esq. 

July  16,  irer. 

Dear  Joe, 

Your  wishes  that  the  newspaper  may  have  mis- 
informed you  are  vain.  Mr.  Unwin  is  dead,  and  died  in  the  manner 
there  mentioned.  At  nine  o'clock  on  Sunday  morning  he  was  in 
perfect  health,  and  as  likel)^  to  live  twenty  years  as  either  of  us, 
and  before  ten  was  stretched  speechless  and  senseless  upon  a  fleck- 
bed  in  a  poor  cottage,  where  (it  being  impossible  to  remove  him) 
he  died  en  Thursday  evening.  I  heard  his  dying  groans,  the  eiTect 
of  great  agony,  for  he  was  a  strong  man,  and  much  ccnvuked  iu 
his  last  moments.  The  few  short  intervals  of  sense  that  were  in- 
dulged hiiTi,  he  spent  in  earnest  prayer,  and  in  expressions  of  a 
firm  trust  and  ccnfidence  in  the  onrr  Saviour.    To  that  strong  held 


LIFE  OF  COWPEl?.  ST 

sve  must  all  resort  at  last,  if  we  would  have  hope  in  our  death; 
when  every  other  refuge  fails,  we  are  glad  to  fly  to  the  only  shelter, 
to  which  we  can  repair  to  any  purp-^se ;  and  happy  is  it  for  us  when 
the  false  ground  we  have  ch'^sen  for  ourselves  being  broken  under 
us,  we  find  ourselves  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  the  Rock  which 
can  never  be  shaken — when  this  is  our  lot,  we  receive  great  and 
undesem^ed  mercy. 

Our  society  will  not  break  up,  but  we  shall  settle  in  some  other 
place,  where  is  at  present  unknown. 

Yours, 

Wm.  COWPER. 

These  tender  and  confidential  letters  describe,  in  the  clearest 
Ught,  the  singularly  peaceful  and  devout  life  of  this  amiable  wri- 
ter during  his  residence  at  Huntingdon,  and  the  melancholy  acci- 
dent which  occasioned  his  removal  to  a  distant  county.  Time 
and  chance  now  introduced  to  the  notice  of  Cowper  the  zealous 
and  venerable  friend,  who  became  his  intimate  associate  for  many 
years,  after  having  advised  and  assisted  him  in  the  important 
concern  of  fixing  his  future  residence.  Mr.  New'on,  then  Curate 
of  Olney,  in  Buckinghamshire,  had  been  requested,  by  the  late 
Dr.  Conyers  (who,  hi  taking  his  degree  in  Divinity  at  Cambridge, 
had  formed  a  friendship  with  young  Mr.  Unwin,  and  learned 
from  him  the  religious  character  of  his  mother),  to  seize  an  op- 
portunity, as  he  was  passing  through  Huntingdon,  of  making  a 
visit  to  an  exemplary  lady.  This  visit  (so  important  in  its  conse- 
quences to  the  destiny  of  Cowper ! )  happened  to  take  place  within 
a  few  days  after  the  calamitous  death  of  Mr.  Unwin.  As  a 
change  of  scene  appeared  desirable  both  to  Mrs.  Unwin  and  to  the 
interesting  Recluse,  whom  she  had  generously  requested  to  con- 
tinue under  her  care,  Mr.  Newton  offered  to  assist  them  in  remov- 
ing to  the  pleasant  and  picturesque  county  in  which  he  resided. 
They  Avere  willing  to  enter  into  the  flock  of  a  benevolent  and  ani- 
mated pastor,  v/hose  religious  ideas  were  so  much  in  harmony 
with  their  own.  He  engaged  for  them  a  house  at  Olney,  where 
they  arrived  on  the  14th  of  October,  1767. 

The  time  of  Cov/per,  in  his  new  situation,  seems  to  have  been 
chiefly  devoted  to  religious  contemplation,  to  social  prayer,  and 
to  active  charity.  To  this  first  of  Christian  virtues  his  heart  was 
eminently  inclined,  and  Providence  very  graciously  enabled  him 
to  exercise  arid  enjoy  it  to  an  extent  far  superior  to  what  his  own 
scanty  fortune  appeared  to  allow.  He  was  very  far  from  inherit- 
ing opulence  on  the  death  of  his  father,  in  1756;  and  the  singu- 
lar cast  of  his  own  mind  ivas  such,  that  nature  seemed  to  liave  ren- 


SB  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

dered  it  impossible  for  him  either  to  covet  or  to  acquire  riches. 
His  perfect  exemption  from  worldly  passions  is  forcibly  displayed 
in  the  two  following  letters. 

LETTER  XV. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esq.  c 

Ohiey,  June  16,  1768, 
Dear  Joe, 

I  thank  you  for  so  full  an  answer  to  so  empty 
an  epistle.  If  Olney  furnished  any  thing  for  your  amusement 
you  should  have  it  in  return,  but  occurrences  here  are  as  scarce 
as  cucumbers  at  Christmas. 

I  Aasited  St.  Alban's  about  a  fortnight  since  in  person,  and  I 
visit  it  every  day  in  thought.  The  recollection  of  what  passed 
there,  and  the  consequences  that  followed  it,  fill  my  mind  con- 
tinually»  and  make  the  circumstances  of  a  poor  transient  half-spent 
life  so  insipid  and  unafFecting,  that  I  have  no  heart  to  think  or 
tvrite  much  about  them.  Whether  the  nation  are  worshipping 
Mr.  Wilkes,  or  any  other  idol,  is  of  little  moment  to  one  who 
hopes  and  believes  that  he  shall  shortly  stand  in  the  presence  of 
the  great  and  blessed  God.  I  thank  him  that  he  has  given  me 
such  a  deep  impressed  persuasion  of  this  awful  truth  as  a  thousand 
"Worlds  would  not  purchase  from  me.  It  gives  a  relish  to  every 
blessing,  and  makes  every  trouble  light.     Affectionately  yours, 

W.  C. 


LETTER  XVI. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esq. 
Bear  Joe,  1769, 

Sir  Thomas  crosses  the  Alps,  and  Sir  Cowper, 
/or  tliat  is  his  title  at  Olney,  prefers  his  home  to  any  other  spot 
of  earth  in  the  world.  Horace,  observing  th.is  difference  of  tem- 
per in  different  persons,  cried  out,  a  good  many  years  ago,  in  the 
true  spirit  of  poetry,  "  How  much  one  man  difiei-s  from  another!'' 
This  does  not  seem  a  very  sublime  exclamation  in  English,  but  I 
remember  we  were  taught  to  admire  it  in  the  original. 

My  dear  friend,  I  am  obliged  to  ycu  for  your  invitation ;  but 
being  long  accustomed  to  retirement,  which  I  was  always  fond  of, 
I  am  now  more  than  ever  unwilling  to  revisit  those  noisy  and 
crowded  scenes  which  I  never  loved,  and  which  I  now  abhor.  I 
remember  you  with  all  the  friendship  I  ever  professed,  which  is 
as  much  as  I  exev  entertained  for  any  man.  But  the  strange  and 
nr.eoiiiinon  incidents  of  my  life  have  given  an  entire  new  tiivj»  1g 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  si 

my  whole  character  and  conduct,  and  rendered  me  incapable  of 
receiving  pleasure  from  the  same  employments  and  amusements 
of  which  I  could  readily  partake  in  former  days, 

I  love  you  and  yours;  I  thank  you  for  your  continued  remem- 
brance of  me,  and  shall  not  cease  to  be  their  and  your 
J.  Affectionate  friend  and  servant, 

VV.  COWPER. 


His  retirement  was  ennobled  by  many  private  acts  of  benefi- 
cence, and  his  exemplary  virtue  was  such,  that  the  opulent  some- 
times delighted  to  make  him  their  almoner.  In  his  sequestered 
life  at  Olney,  he  ministered  abundantly  to  the  wants  of  the  poor, 
from  a  fund,  with  which  he  was  supplied  by  that  model  of  exten- 
sive and  unostentatious  philanthropy,  the  late  John  Thornton,  Esq, 
whose  name  he  has  immortalized  in  his  Poem  on  Charity,  still  ho- 
nouring his  memory  by  an  additional  tribute  to  his  virtues,  in  the 
following  unpublished  Poem,  written  immediately  on  his  decease, 
in  the  year  1790. 

Poet5  attempt  the  noblest  task  they  can. 
Praising  the  author  of  all  good  in  man ; 
And  next  commemorating  worthies  lost, 
The  dead,  in  whom  that  good  abounded  most. 

Thee  therefore  of  commercial  fame,  but  more 
Fam'd  for  thy  probity,  from  shore  to  shore ; 
Thee,  Thornton,  worthy  in  some  page  to  shine 
As  honest,  and  more  eloquent  than  mine, 
I  mourn ;  or  since  thi'ice  happy  thou  must  be. 
The  world,  no  longer  thy  abode,  not  thee ; 
Thee  to  deplore  were  grief  misspent  indeed ; 
It  were  to  weep,  that  goodness  has  its  meed, 
That  there  is  bliss  prepared  in  yonder  sky, 
And  glory  for  the  virtuous,  when  they  die. 

What  pleasure  can  the  miser's  fondled  hoard, 
Or  spendthrift's  prodigal  excess  afford. 
Sweet,  as  the  privilege  of  healing  woe 
Suffer'd  by  virtue,  combating  below  ? 
That  privilege  was  thine ;  Heaven  gave  thee  means 
To  illumine  with  delight  the  saddest  scenes. 
Till  thy  appearance  chas'd  the  gloom,  forlorn 
As  midnight;,  and  despairing  of  a  morn. 


40  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

Thou  had'st  an  industry  in  doing  good, 

Restless  as  his,  who  toils  and  sweats  for  food. 

Av'rice  in  thee  was  the  desire  of  wealth 

By  rust  unperishable,  or  by  stealth. 

And  if  the  genuine  worth  of  gold  depend 

On  application  to  its  noblest  end, 

Thine  had  a  va'ue  in  the  scales  of  Heaven, 

Surpassing  all,  that  mine  or  mint  had  given : 

And  though  God  made  thee  of  a  nature  prone 

To  distribution,  boundless  of  thy  own, 

And  still,  by  motives  of  religious  force, 

Impell'd  thee  more  to  that  heroic  course; 

Yet  was  thy  liberality  discreet ; 

Nice  in  its  choice,  and  of  a  temp'rate  heat ; 

And  though  in  act  unwearied,  secret  still, 

As,  in  some  solitude,  the  summer  rill 

Refireshes,  where  it  winds,  the  faded  green. 

And  cheers  the  drooping  flowers,  unheard,  unseen. 

Such  was  thy  Charity  ;  no  sudden  start, 
After  long  sleep  of  passion  in  the  heart, 
But  steadfast  principle,  and  in  its  kind 
Of  close  alliance  with  th'  eternal  mind ; 
Trac'd  easily  to  its  true  source  above, 
To  him,  whose  works  bespeak  his  nature,  love. 
Thy  bounties  all  were  Christian,  and  I  make 
This  record  of  thee  for  the  Gospel's  sake  ; 
That  the  incrediUous  themselves  may  see 
Its  use  and  power  exemplified  in  thee. 

This  simple  and  sublime  eulogy  was  perfectly  merited ;  and 
among  the  happiest  actions  of  this  truly  liberal  man,  we  may 
reckon  his  furnishing  to  a  character  so  reserved,  and  so  retired 
as  Cowper,  the  means  of  his  enjoying  the  gratification  of  active 
and  costly  beneficence ;  a  gratification,  in  which  the  sequestered 
Poet  had  nobly  indulged  himself  before  his  acquaintance  with  Mr. 
Newton  afforded  him  an  opportunity  of  being  concei-ned  in  distri- 
buting the  private,  yet  extensive  bounty  of  an  opulent  and  exem- 
plary merchant. 

Co^vper,  before  he  quitted  St.  Alban's,  ass^umed  the  charge  of  a 
necessitous  child ;  to  extricate  him  from  the  perils  of  being  edu- 
cated by  very  profligate  parents,  he  put  him  to  school  at  Hunting- 
don, removed  him  on  his  own  removal  to  Olney,  and  finally 
settled  him  as  an  apprentice  in  St.  Alban's. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  41 

The  warm,  benevolent,  and  chterful  enthusiasm  of  Mr.  Newton 
induced  his  friend  Cowper  to  participate  so  abundantly  in  his  de- 
vout occupation,  that  the  Poet's  time  and  thoughts  were  more  and 
more  engrossed  by  religious  pursuits.  He  wrote  many  hymns, 
and  occasionally  directed  the  pra}'ers  of  the  poor.  Where  the 
nerves  are  tender,  and  the  imagination  tremblingly  alive,  any  little 
excess,  in  the  exercise  of  the  purest  piety,  may  be  attended  with 
such  perils  to  corporeal  and  mental  health,  as  men  of  a  more  firm 
imd  hardy  fibre  would  be  far  from  apprehending.  Perhaps  the 
life  that  Cowper  led,  on  his  settling  in  Olney,  had  a  tendency  to 
increase  the  morbid  propensity  of  his  fi'ame,  though  it  was  a  life 
of  admirable  sanctity. 

Absorbed  as  he  was  in  devotion,  he  forgot  not  his  distant 
fi-iends,  and  particularly  his  amiable  relation  and  correspondent 
of  the  Park-House,  near  Hartford.  The  following  letter  to  that 
lady  has  no  date,  but  it  was  probably  written  soon  after  his  esta- 
blishment at  Olney.  The  remarkable  memento  in  the  postscript 
was  undoubtedly  introduced  to  counteract  an  idle  rumour,  arising 
from  the  circumstance  of  his  having  settled  himself  under  the  roof 
of  a  female  friend,  whose  age,  and  whose  virtues,  he  considered  as» 
sufficient  securities  to  ensure  her  reputation. 

LETTER  XVII. 
To  Mrs.  COWPER. 

My  dear  Cousin, 

I  have  not  been  behind-hand  in  reproach- 
ing myself  with  neglect,  but  desire  to  take  shame  to  myself  for  my 
unprofitableness  in  this,  as  well  as  in  all  other  respects.  I  take 
the  next  immediate  opportunity  however  of  thanking  you  for 
yours,  and  of  assuring  you  that  instead  of  being  surprized  at  your 
silence,  I  rather  wonder  that  you,  or  any  of  my  friends,  have  any 
room  left  for  so  careless  and  negligent  a  correspondent  in  your 
memories.  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  the  intelligence  you  send  me  of 
my  kindred,  and  rejoice  to  hear  of  their  v»elfare.  He  who  settles 
the  bounds  of  our  habitations  has  at  length  cast  our  lot  at  a  great 
distance  from  each  other;  but  I  do  not  therefore  forget  their  former 
liindness  to  me,  or  cease  to  be  interested  in  their  well-being.  You 
live  in  the  centre  of  a  world  I  know  you  do  not  delight  in.  Happy- 
are  you,  my  dear  friend,  in  being  able  to  discern  the  insufficiency 
of  all  it  can  affiard  to  fill  and  satisfy  the  desires  of  an  immortal 
soul.  That  God  who  created  us  for  the  enjoj-ment  of  himself,  has 
determined,  in  mercy,  that  it  shall  fail  us  here,  in  order  that  the 
blessed  result  of  all  our  inquiries  after  happiness  in  tlie  creature 
maybe  a  warm  pursuit,  and  a  close  attachment  to  our  true  in- 
VOL.  I.  m 


42  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

terest,  in  fellowship  and  communion  with  him,  through  the  name' 
and  mediation  of  a  dear  Redeemer.  I  bless  his  goodness  and  grace 
that  I  have  any  reason  to  hope  I  am  a  partaker  with  you  in  the  de- 
sire after  better  things  than  are  to  be  found  in  a  world  polluted 
with  sin,  and  therefore  devoted  to  destruction.  May  he  enable  us. 
both  to  consider  our  present  life  in  its  only  true  light,  as  an  oppor- 
tunity put  into  our  hands  to  glorify  him  amongst  men,  by  a  conduct 
suited  to  his  word  and  will.  I  am  miserably  defective  in  this  holy 
and  blessed  art ;  but  I  hope  there  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  my  sinful 
infirmities,  a  sincere  desire  to  live  just  so  long  as  I  maybe  enabled, 
in  some  poor  measure,  to  answer  the  end  of  my  existence  in  this 
respect,  and  then  to  obey  the  summons,  and  attend  him  in  a  world 
where  they  who  are  his  servants  here  shall  pay  him  an  unsinful 
obedience  for  ever.  Your  dear  mother  is  too  good  to  me,  and  puts 
a  more  charitable  construction  upon  my  silence  than  the  fact  will 
warrant.  I  am  not  better  employed  than  I  should  be  in  corres- 
ponding Avith  her.  I  have  that  within  which  hinders  me  wretch- 
edly in  every  thing  that  I  ought  to  do,  but  is  prone  to  trifle,  and 
let  time  and  every  good  thing  run  to  waste.  I  hope,  however,  to 
write  to  her  soon. 

My  love  and  best  wishes  attend  Mr.  Cowper,  and  all  that  in-' 
quire  after  me.  May  God  be  with  you,  to  bless  you,  and  do  you^ 
good  by  all  his  dispensations  :  don't  forget  me  when  you  are  speak- 
ing to  our  best  Friend  before  his  mercy-seat. 

Yours  ever, 

W.  COWPER. 

N.  B.  I  am  not  married. 

In  the  year  1769  the  Lady  to  Avhom  the  preceding  letters  arc 
addressed  was  involved  in  domestic  affliction ;  and  the  following, 
Avhich  the  Poet  wrote  to  her  on  the  occasion,  is  so  full  of  genuine 
piety  and  true  pathos,  that  it  would  be  an  injur)'  to  his  memory 
to  suppress  it. 

LETTER  XVIII. 

Olneij,  Aug.  31,  17&9k^- 
To  Mrs.  COWPER. 
Dear  Cousin, 

A  letter  from  your  brother  Frederick  brought 
me  yesterday  the  most  afflicting  intelligence  that  has  reached  me 
these  many  years.  I  pray  to  God  to  comfort  you,  and  to  enable 
you  to  sustain  this  heavy  stroke  with  that  i-esignation  to  his  will 
Avhich  none  but  himself  can  give,  and  which  he  gives  to  none  but 
bis  own  children.    How  blessed  and  happy  is  your  lot,  my  dear 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  4% 

friend,  beyond  the  common  lot  of  tlie  greater  part  of  mankind, 
that  you  know  what  it  is  to  draw  near  to  God  in  prayer,  and  are 
acquainted  with  a  Throne  of  Grace  !  You  have  resources  in  the 
infinite  love  of  a  dear  Redeemer,  which  are  withheld  from  mil- 
lions ;  and  the  promises  of  God,  which  are  yea  and  amen  in  Jesus, 
are  sufficient  to  answer  all  your  necessities,  and  to  sweeten  the 
bitterest  cup  which  your  heavenly  Father  will  ever  put  into  your 
hand.  May  he  now  give  you  liberty  to  drink  at  these  wells  of  sal- 
vation, till  you  are  filled  with  consolation  and  peace  in  the  midst 
of  trouble.  He  has  said,  when  thou  passest  through  the  fire,  \  will 
be  with  thee,  and  when  through  the  floods,  they  shall  not  overflow 
thee.  You  have  need  of  such  a  word  as  this,  and  he  knows  your 
need  of  it,  and  the  time  of  necessity  is  the  time  w^hen  he  will  be 
sure  to  appear  in  behalf  of  those  who  trust  him.  I  bear  you  and 
yours  upon  my  heart  before  him  night  and  day,  for  I  never  expect 
to  hear  of  a  distress  which  shall  call  upon  me  with  a  louder  voice 
to  pray  for  the  sufferer.  I  know  the  Lord  hears  me  for  myself, 
v-ile  and  sinful  as  I  am,  and  believe,  and  am  sure,  that  he  will 
hear  me  for  you  also.  He  is  the  friend  of  the  widow,  and  the  fa- 
ther of  the  fatherless,  even  God  in  his  holy  habitation  ;  in  all  our 
afflictions  he  is  afflicted,  and  chastens  us  in  mercy.  Surely  he 
will  sanctify  this  dispensation  to  you,  do  you  great  and  everlasting 
good  by  it,  make  the  world  appear  like  dust  and  vanity  in  your 
sight,  as  it  truly  is,  and  open  to  your  view  the  glories  of  a  better 
country,  where  there  shall  he  no  more  death,  neither  sorrow  nop 
pain,  but  God  shall  v/ipe  away  all  tears  from  your  eyes  for  ever. 
Oh  that  comfortable  word !  "  I  have  chosen  thee  in  the  furnaces 
of  afiiiction ;"  so  that  our  very  sorrows  are  evidences  of  our  calling, 
and  he  chastens  us  because  we  are  his  children. 

My  dear  cousin,  I  commit  you  to  the  word  of  his  grace,  and  to 
the  comforts  of  his  Holy  Spirit.  Your  life  is  needful  for  your  fa- 
mily ;  may  God  in  mercy  to  them  prolong  it,  and  may  he  preserve 
you  from  the  dang-erous  effects  which  a  stroke  like  this  might  have 
upon  a  frame  so  tender  as  yours.  I  grieve  with  you — I  pray  for 
you — could  I  do  more  I  would,  but  God  must  comfort  you. 
Yours,  in  our  dear  Lord  Jesus, 

W.  COWPER. 


Li  the  following  year  the  lender  feelings  of  Cowper  were 
called  foi'th  by  family  affliction,  tliat  pressed  more  immediately  on 
himself;  he  was  hurried  to  Cambridge  by  the  dangerous  illucKS  of 
his  brother,  tlien  residing  as  a  Fellow  in  Bennet  College.  An  af- 
fection truly  fraternal  had  ever  sul)sisted  betv/ccu  the  lirothers, 


U  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

and  the  reader  will  recollect  what  the  Poet  has  said  in  one  of  his 
letters  concerning  their  social  intercourse  while  he  resided  at 
Huntingdon. 

In  the  two  first  years  of  his  residence  at  Olney,  he  had  been  re- 
peatedly visited  by  Mr.  John  Cowper ;  and  how  cordially  he  re- 
turned his  kindness  and  his  attention  the  following  letter  will  tes- 
tify', which  Avas  probably  written  in  the  chamber  of  the  invalid, 
whom  the  writer  so  fervently  wished  to  restore. 

LETTER  XIX. 
X  To  Mrs.  COWPER. 

March  5,  1770, 
My  brother  continues  much  as  he  was.  His  case 
Is  a  very  dangerous  one ;  an  imposthume  of  the  liver,  attended 
by  an  asthma  and  dropsy.  The  Physician  has  little  hope  of  his 
recover}^ ;  I  believe  I  might  say  none  at  all,  only  being  a  friend, 
he  does  not  formally  give  him  over  by  ceasing  to  visit  him,  lest  it 
should  sink  his  spirits.  For  my  own  part  I  have  no  expectation  of 
his  recovery,  except  by  a  signal  interposition  of  Providence  in  an- 
swer to  prayer.  His  case  is  clearly  out  of  the  reach  of  medicine ; 
but  I  have  seen  many  a  sickness  healed,  where  the  danger  has 
been  equally  threatening,  by  the  only  Physician  of  value.  I  doubt 
not  he  will  have  an  interest  in  your  prayers,  as  he  lias  in  the 
prayers  of  many.  May  the  Lord  incline  his  ear,  and  give  an  an- 
swer of  peace.  I  know  it  is  good  to  be  afflicted.  I  trust  that  you 
have  found  it  so,  and  that  xmder  the  teaching  of  God's  oAvn  Spirit 

we  shall  both  be  purified. It  is  the  desire  of  my  sod  to  seek  a 

better  covmtry,  where  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  the 
eyes  of  his  people,  and  where,  looking  back  upon  the  ways  by 
wliich  he  has  led  us,  we  shall  be  filled  with  everlasting  wonder, 
Jove  and  praise.     I  must  add  no  more. 

Yours  ever, 

W.  COWPER. 


The  sickness  and  death  of  his  learned,  pious,  and  affectionate 
brother,  made  a  very  strong  impression  on  the  tender  heart  and 
mind  of  Cowper — an  impression  so  strong  that  it  induced  him  to 
write  a  narrative  of  the  remarkable  circumstances  which  occurred 
at  the  time.  He  sent  a  copy  of  this  narrative  to  Mr.  Nev/tcn. 
The  paper  is  curious  in  every  point  of  view,  and  so  likely  to 
awaken  sentiments  of  piety  in  minds  where  it  may  be  most  desira- 
ble to  have  them  awakened,  that  Mr.  Kewtcn  has  thought  it  liis 
duty  to  print  it. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  4S- 

Here  it  is  incumbent  on  me  to  introduce  a  Ijrief  account  of  tlie 
interesting  person  -wliom  the  Poet  regarded  so  tciiderl}-.  John 
Cowper  was  born  in  1737  ;  being  designed  for  the  Church,  he  was 
privately  educated  by  a  Clergyman,  and  became  eminent  for  the 
extent  and  variety  of  his  erudition  in  the  University  of  Cambridge. 
His  conduct  and  sentiments,  as  a  Minister  of  the  Gospel,  are  copi- 
ously displayed  by  his  brother,  in  recording  tlie  remarkable  close 
of  his  life.  Bennet  College,  of  which  he  was  a  Fellow,  was  his 
usual  residence,  and  it  became  the  scene  of  his  death,  on  the  20tli 
of  March,  1770.  Fraternal  affection  has  executed  a  perfectly  just 
and  gracefiil  description  of  his  character,  both  in  prose  and  verse, 
I  transcribe  both,  as  highly  honourable  to  these  exemplary  brethren, 
who  may  indeed  be  said  to  have  dwelt  together  in  unity. 

"  He  was  a  man,"  says  the  Poet  in  speaking  of  his  deceased 
brother,  "  of  a  most  candid  and  ingenuous  spirit ;  his  temper  re- 
markably sAveet,  and  hi  his  behaviour  to  me  he  had  always  mani- 
fested an  uncommon  affection.  His  outward  conduct,  so  far  as  it 
fell  under  my  notice,  or  I  could  learn  it  by  the  report  of  others,  was 
perfectly  decent  and  unblameable.  There  was  noticing  vicious  in 
any  part  of  his  practice  ;  but  being  of  a  studious,  thoughtful  turn, 
he  placed  his  chief  delight  in  the  acquisition  of  learning,  and 
made  such  acquisitions  in  it,  that  he  had  but  few  rivals  in  that  of 
a  classical  kind.  He  was  critically  skilled  in  the  Latin,  Greek, 
and  Hebrew  languages ;  was  beginning  to  make  himself  master 
of  the  Syriac,  and  perfectly  understood  the  Fi'ench  and  Italian  ; 
the  latter  of  which  he  could  speak  fluently.  Learned,  however, 
«s  he  was,  he  was  easy  and  cheerful  in  his  conversation,  and  en- 
tirely free  from  the  stiffness  which  is  generally  contracted  by  men 
{Icvoted  to  such  pursuits." 

I  had  a  brother  once  : 
Peace  to  the  memory  of  a  man  of  worth  I 
A  man  of  letters,  and  of  manners  too  ! 
Of  manners  sweet  as  virtue  always  wears 
When  gay  good  humour  dresses  her  in  smiles  i 
He  grac'd  a  College,  in  which  order  yet 
Was  sacred,  and  was  honour'd,  lov'd,  and  v/cpt 
By  mcfre  than  one,  themselves  conspicuous  there. 

Another  interesting  tribute  to  liis  mcrnci-y  v,ill  Lo  found  jij 
the  following  letter. 


•^        '  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

LETTER  XX. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,   Esq. 

May  8,  1770, 
Dear  Joe, 

Your  letter  did  not  reach  me  till  the  last  post, 
■when  I  had  not  time  to  answer  it.  I  left  Cambridge  immediately- 
after  my  brother's  death. 

I  am  obliged  to  you  for  the  particular  account  you  have  sent 

He  to  whom  I  have  surrendered  myself  and  all  my  concerns,  has 
otherwise  appointed,  and  let  his  will  be  done.  He  gives  me  much, 
which  he  withholds  from  others ;  and  if  he  was  pleased  to  withhold 
all  that  makes  an  outward  difference  between  me  and  the  poor 
mendicant  in  the  street,  it  would  still  become  me  to  say,  his  wiU 
be  done. 

It  pleased  God  to  cut  short  my  brother's  connections  and  ex- 
pectations here,  yet  not  without  giving  him  lively  and  glorious  views 
of  a  better  happiness  than  any  he  could  propose  to  himself  in  such 
a  world  as  this.  Notwithstanding  his  great  learning  (for  he  was 
one  of  the  chief  men  in  the  University  in  that  respect)  he  was  can- 
did and  sincere  in  his  inquiries  after  truth.  Though  he  could  not 
come  into  my  sentiments  when  I  first  acquainted  him  with  them, 
nor  in  the  many  conversations  which  I  afterwards  had  with  him 
upon  the  subject,  could  he  be  brought  to  acquiesce  in  them  as  scrip- 
tural and  true,  yet  I  had  no  sooner  left  St,  Alban's  than  he  began 
to  study  with  the  deepest  attention  those  points  in  which  we  dif- 
fered, and  to  furnish  himself  with  the  best  writers  upon  them.  His 
mind  was  kept  open  to  conviction  for  five  years,  during  ail  which 
time  he  laboured  in  this  pursuit  with  unwearied  diligence,  as  lei- 
sure and  opportunity  were  afforded.  Amongst  his  dying  words 
were  these,  "  Brother,  I  thought  you  wrong,  yet  wanted  to  believe 
as  you  did.  I  found  myself  not  able  to  believe,  yet  always  thought 
I  should  one  day  be  brought  to  do  so."  From  the  study  of  books 
he  was  brought,  upon  his  death-bed,  to  the  study  of  himself,  and 
there  learnt  to  renounce  his  righteousness,  and  his  owai  most  ami- 
able character,  and  to  submit  himself  to  the  righteousness  which 
is  of  God  by  faith.  \'\''ith  these  views  he  was  desirous  of  death. 
Satisfied  of  his  interest  in  the  blessing  purchased  by  the  blood  of 
Christ,  he  prayed  for  death  with  earnestness,  felt  the  approaches 
©f  h  with  joy,  and  died  in  peace. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend, 

\\.  CO^^TER. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  4T 

The  exquisite  sensibilitj'  of  Cowper  could  not  fail  to  suffer  deeply 
on  the  loss  of  such  a  brother ;  but  it  is  the  peculiar  blessing  of  a 
religious  turn  of  mind,  that  it  serves  as  an  antidote  against  the  cor- 
rosive influence  of  sorrow.  Devotion,  if  it  had  no  other  beneficial 
effect  on  the  human  character,  would  be  still  inestimable  to  man, 
as  a  medicine  for  the  anguish  he  feels  in  losing  the  objects  of  his 
affection.  How  far  it  proved  so  in  the  pi'esent  case  the  reader  will 
be  enabled  to  judge  by  a  letter,  in  which  Cowper  describes  his  sen- 
sations on  this  awful  event  to  one  of  his  favourite  correspondents, 

LETTER  XXL 
To  Mrs.  COWPER,  Holies-Street,  Cavendish-Square. 

Ohinj,  June  7,  1770. 
Dear  Cousin, 

I  am  obliged  to  you  for  som.etimes  thinking  of 
an  unseen  friend,  and  bestowing  a  letter  upon  me.  It  gives  me 
pleasure  to  hear  from  you,  especially  to  find  that  our  gracious  Lord 
enables  you  to  weather  out  the  storms  you  meet  with,  and  to  cast 
anchor  within  the  veil. 

You  judge  rightly  of  the  manner  in  which  I  have  been  affected 
by  the  Lord's  late  dispensation  towards  my  brother.  I  found  in  it 
cause  of  sorrow,  that  I  lost  so  near  a  relation,  and  one  so  deserv- 
edly dear  to  me,  and  that  he  left  me  just  when  our  sentiments  upon 
the  most  interesting  subject  became  the  same;  but  much  more 
cause  of  joy,  that  it  pleased  God  to  give  me  clear  and  evident 
proof  that  he  had  changed  his  heart,  and  adopted  him  into  the 
number  of  his  children.  For  this  I  hold  myself  peculiarly  bound 
to  thank  him,  becavise  he  might  have  done  all  that  he  was  pleased 
to  do  for  him,  and  yet  have  afforded  him  neither  strength  nor  op- 
portunity to  declare  it.  I  doubt  not  that  he  enlightens  the  under- 
standings, and  works  a  gracious  change  in  the  hearts  of  many  in 
their  last  moments,  whose  surrounding  friends  are  not  made  ac- 
quainted with  it. 

He  told  me,  that  from  the  time  he  v/as  first  ordained  he  began 
to  be  dissatisfied  with  his  religious  opinions,  and  to  suspect  that 
there  were  greater  things  concealed  in  the  Bible  than  were  gene- 
tally  believed  or  allowed  to  be  there.  From  the  time  when  I  first 
visited  him  after  my  release  from  St.  Alban's,  he  began  to  read 
upon  the  subject.  It  was  at  that  time  I  informed  him  of  the  viev.'s 
of  divine  truth  which  I  had  received  in  that  school  of  affliction. 
He  laid  what  I  said  to  heart,  and  begun  to  furnish  himself  with  the 
best  writers  on  the  controverted  points,  whose  works  he  read  with 
great  diligence  and  attention,  comparing  them  all  the  wiiile  with 
the  Scripture.    None  e^cr  truly  and  ingenuously  sought  the  U'uth 


48  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

fcut  they  found  it.  A  spirit  of  earnest  inquiry  is  the  gift  of  God, 
who  never  says  to  any,  seek  ye  my  face  in  vain.  Accordingly, 
about  ten  days  before  his  death,  it  pleased  the  Lord  to  dispel  all 
his  doubts,  to  reveal  in  his  heart  the  knowledge  of  the  Saviour, 
and  to  give  him  firm  and  unshaken  peace  in  the  belief  of  his  ability 
and  willingness  to  save.  As  to  the  affair  of  the  fortune-teller,  he 
never  mentioned  it  to  me,  nor  was  there  any  such  paper  found  as 
}rou  mention.  I  looked  over  all  his  papers  before  I  left  the  place, 
and,  had  there  been  such  a  one,  must  have  discovered  it.  I  have 
heard  the  report  from  other  quarters,  but  no  other  particulars  than 
that  the  woman  foretold  him  when  he  should  die.  I  suppose  there 
may  be  some  tmth  in  the  matter ;  but  whatever  he  might  think  of 
it  before  liis  knowledge  of  the  truth,  and  hov/ever  extraordinary 
iier  predictions  might  really  be,  I  am  satisfied  that  he  had  then  re- 
ceived far  other  views  of  the  Avisdom  and  majesty  of  God  than  to 
suppose  that  he  would  entrust  his  secret  counsels  to  a  vagrant,  who 
did  not  mean,  I  suppose,  to  be  understood  to  have  received  her  in- 
telligence from  the  Foimtain  of  Light,  but  thought  herself  suffici- 
ently honoured  by  any  who  would  give  her  credit  for  a  secret  inter- 
course of  this  kind  with  the  Prince  of  Darkness. 

Mrs.  Unwin  is  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  kmd  inquiry  after 
her.  She  is  well,  I  thank  Gud,  as  usual,  and  sends  her  respects  to 
ji-ou.  Her  son  is  in  the  ministry,  and  has  the  Living  of  Steele,  in 
Essex.  We  were  last  week  alarmed  with  an  account  of  his  being 
dangerously  ill.  Mrs.  Unwin  went  to  see  him,  and  in  a  few  days 
left  him  out  of  danger. 


Tlie  letters  of  the  afflicted  Poet  to  this  amiable  and  sympathetic 
relation  have  already  afforded  to  my  reader  an  insight  into  the 
pure  recesses  of  Cowper's  Avonderful  mind  at  some  remarkable 
periods  of  his  life,  and  if  my  reader's  opinion  of  these  letters  is 
consonant  to  my  own,  he  will  feel  concerned,  as  I  do,  to  find  a 
chasm  of  ten  years  in  this  valuable  correspondence ;  the  more  so, 
as  it  was  chiefly  occasioned  by  a  new,  a  long,  and  severe  visitation 
of  that  mental  malady,  which  periodically  involved  in  calamitous 
oppression  the  superior  faculties  of  this  interesting  sufferer.  His 
extreme  depression  seems  not  to  have  recurred  immediately  on  the 
sliock  of  his  brotlier's  death.  In  the  autumn  of  the  year  in  which 
he  sustained  that  affecting  loss,  he  wrote  the  following  serious  but 
■auimuted  letter  to  Mr,  Hill. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  49 

LETTER  XXIL 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esq. 
Dear  Joe,  Scfit.  25,  1770. 

I  have  not  clone  conversing  with  terrestial  objects, 
though  I  should  be  happy  were  I  able  to  hold  more  continual  con- 
verse with  a  friend  above  the  skies.  He  has  my  heart,  but  he  allows 
a  corner  in  it  for  all  who  show  me  kindness,  and  therefore  one  for 
you.  The  storm  of  '63  made  a  wreck  of  the  friendships  I  had  con- 
tracted in  the  course  of  many  years,  yours  excepted,  which  has 
survived  the  tempest. 

I  thank  you  for  your  repeated  invitation.  Singular  thanks  arc 
due  to  you  for  so  singular  an  instance  of  your  regard.  I  could  not 
leave  Olney  unless  in  a  case  of  absolute  necessity,  without  muck 
inconvenience  to  myself  and  others. 


In  his  sequestered  life  he  seems  to  have  been  much  consoled  and 
entertained  by  the  society  of  his  pious  friend,  Mr.  Newton,  in  whose 
religious  pursuits  he  appears  to  have  taken  an  active  part,  by  the 
composition  of  sixty-eight  hymns.  Mr.  Newton  wished  and  ejj- 
pected  him  to  have  contributed  a  much  largei*  number,  as  he  has 
declared  in  the  preface  to  that  collection  of  hymns  which  contains 
these  devotional  effusions  of  Cowper  distinguished  by  the  initial 
letter  of  his  name.  The  volume  composed  for  the.  inhabitants  of 
Olney  was  the  joint  production  of  the  Divine  and  the  Poet,  and  in- 
tended, as  the  former  expressly  says  in  his  Preface,  "  as  a  monu- 
ment to  perpetuate  the  remembrance  of  an  intimate  and  endeared! 
friendship.  With  this  pleasing  view,"  continues  Mr.  Newton,  "  I 
entered  upon  my  part,  which  would  have  been  smaller  than  it  is, 
and  the  book  would  have  appeared  much  sooner,  and  in  a  very  dif- 
ferent form,  if  the  wise  though  mysterious  Providence  of  God  had 
iiot  seen  fit  to  cross  my  wishes.  We  had  not  proceeded  far  upon 
our  proposed  plan,  before  my  dear  friend  was  prevented,  by  a  long 
and  affecting  indisposition,  from  affording  me  any  further  assist- 
ance." The  severe  illness  of  the  Poet,  to  which  these  expressions 
relate,  began  in  1~73,  and  extended  beyond  the  date  of  the  Preface 
(from  which  they  are  quoted),  February  15,  1779. 

These  social  labours  of  the  Poet  with  an  exemplary  man  of  God, 
for  the  purpose  of  promoting  simple  piety  among  the  lower  classes 
of  the  people,  must  have  been  delightful,  in  a  high  degree,  to  the 
benevolent  heart  of  Cowper ;  and  I  am  persuaded  he  alludes  to  his 
own  feelings  on  this  subject  in  the  following  passage  from  his 
Poem  on  Conversation, 

VOL.  I.  » 


so  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

True  bliss,  if  man  may  reach  it,  is  compos'd 

Of  hearts  in  union  mutually  disclos'd  ; 

And,  farewell  else  all  hope  of  pure  delight  I 

Those  hearts  should  be  reclaim'd,  renew'd,  upright  i 

Bad  men,  profaning  friendship's  hallowed  name, 

Form  in  its  stead  a  covenant  of  shame : 

*  'H?  *  *  »  * 

But  souls  that  carry  on  a  blest  exchange 

Of  joys  they  meet,  with  in  their  heavenly  range. 

And  with  a  fearless  confidence  make  known 

The  sorrows  sympathy  esteems  its  own ; 

Daily  derive  increasing  light  and  force 

From  such  communion,  in  their  pleasant  course;' 

Feel  less  the  journey's  roughness,  and  its  length, 

Meet  their  opposers  with  united  strength. 

And  one  in  heart,  in  interest,  and  design, 

Gird  up  each  other  to  the  race  divine. 

Such  fellowship  in  literary  labour,  for  the  noblest  of  purposes^ 
must  be  delightful  indeed,  if  attended  with  success,  and,  at  all 
events,  it  is  entitled  to  respect:  yet  it  may  be  doubted  if  the  intense 
zeal  with  which  Cowper  embarked  in  this  fascinating  pursuit,  had 
not  a  dangerous  tendency  to  undermine  his  very  delicate  health. 

Such  an  apprehension  naturally  arises  from  a  recollection  of 
what  medical  writers  of  great  ability  have  said  on  the  awful  sub- 
ject of  mental  derangement.  Whenever  the  slightest  tendency  to 
that  misfortune  appears,  it  seems  expedient  to  guard  a  tender  spirit 
from  the  attractions  of  Piety  herself.  So  fearfully  and  wonderfully 
are  v/e  made,  that  man,  in  all  conditions,  ought,  perhaps,  to  pray 
that  he  never  may  be  led  to  think  of  his  Creator  and  of  his  Re- 
deemer either  too  little  or  too  much. 

But  if  the  charitable  and  religious  zeal  of  the  Poet  led  him  into 
any  excesses  of  devotion,  injurious  to  the  extreme  delicacy  of  his 
nervous  system,  he  is  only  the  more  entitled  to  admiration  and  to 
pity :  indeed,  his  genius,  his  virtues,  and  his  misfortunes  were  cal- 
culated to  excite  those  tender  and  temperate  passions  in  their  purest 
state,  and  to  the  highest  degree.  It  may  be  questioned  if  any 
mortal  could  be  more  sincerely  beloved  and  revered  than  Cowper 
was  by  those  who  were  best  acquainted  with  his  private  hours. 

The  season  was  now  arrived  when  the  firm  friendship  of  Mrs. 
Unwin  was  put  to  the  severest  of  trials,  and  when  her  conduct  was 
such  as  to  deserve  those  rare  rewards  of  grateful  attention  and  ten- 
derness, which,  when  she  herself  became  the  victim  of  age  and- 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  51 

infirmit}',  she  received  from  that  exemphiry  being,  who  considered 
himself  indebted  to  her  friendly  vigilance  for  his  hfe,  and  who  never 
forgot  an  obligation  when  his  mind  was  itself. 

In  1773  he  sunk  into  such  severe  paroxysms  of  religious  despon- 
dency, that  he  required  an  attendant  of  the  most  gentle,  vigilant, 
and  inflexible  spirit.  Such  an  attendant  he  found  in  that  faithful 
guardian  whom  he  had  professed  to  love  as  a  mother,  and  who 
watched  over  him,  during  this  long  fit  of  depressive  malady,  ex- 
tended through  several  years,  with  that  perfect  mixture  of  tender- 
ness and  fortitude  which  constitutes  the  inestimable  influence  of  ma- 
ternal protection.  I  wish  to  pass  rapidly  over  this  calamitous 
period,  and  shall  only  observe,  that  nothing  could  surpass  the  suf- 
ferings of  the  patient,  or  the  care  of  his  nurse.  That  meritorious 
care  received  from  Heaven  the  most  delightful  of  rewards,  in 
seeing  the  pure  and  powerful  mind,  to  whose  restoration  it  had  con- 
tributed so  much,  not  only  gradually  restored  to  the  common  enjo\  - 
ments  of  life,  but  successively  endowed  with  new  and  marvellous 
funds  of  diversified  talents,  and  courageous  application. 

The  spirit  of  Cowper  emerged,  by  slow  degrees,  from  its  very 
deep  dejection  ;  and  before  his  mind  was  sufficiently  recovered  to 
employ  itself  on  literary  composition,  it  sought,  and  found,  much 
salutary  amusement  in  educating  a  little  group  of  tame  Hares, 
On  his  expressing  a  wish  to  divert  himself  by  rearing  a  single  Le- 
veret, the  good-nature  of  his  neighbours  supplied  him  with  three. 
The  variety  of  their  dispositions  became  a  source  of  great  entertain- 
ment to  his  compassionate  and  contemplative  spirit.  'One  of  the 
trio  he  has  celebrated  in  the  Task;  and  a  very  animated  minute 
account  of  this  singular  family  humanized,  and  described  most  ad- 
mirably by  himself,  in  prose,  appeared  first  in  the  Gentleman's 
Magazine,  and  has  been  recently  inserted  in  the  second  volume  of 
his  Poems.  These  interesting  animals  had  not  only  tlie  honour  of 
being  cherished  and  celebrated  by  a  poet,  but  the  pencil  has  also 
contributed  to  their  renown  ;  and  their  portraits,  engraved  from 
a  drawing  presented  to  Cowper  by  a  friend  unknown,  may  serve 
as  a  little  embellishment  to  this  life  of  their  singularly  tender  and 
benevolent  protector. 

His  three  tame  Hares,  Mrs.  Unwin,  and  Mr.  Newton,  were, 
for  a  considerable  time,  the  only  companions  of  Cowper ;  but  as 
Mr.  Newton  was  removed  to  a  distance  from  his  afilictcd  friend, 
by  preferment  in  London,  to  which  he  was  presented  by  that  libe- 
ral encouragcr  of  active  piety,  Mr.  Thornton,  the  friendly  Divine, 
before  he  left  Olney,  in  1780,  humanely  triumplicd  over  tlie  strong 
reluctance  of  Cowper  to  see  a  stranger,  and  kind!}' introduced  him 
to  the  regard  and  good  offices  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Bull,  of  Newport- 


52  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

Pagnell,  who,  from  that  time,  considering  it  as  a  duty  to  visit  the 
invalid  once  a  fortnight,  acquired,  by  degrees,  his  cordial  and 
confidential  esteem. 

The  affectionate  temper  of  CoAvper  inclined  him  particularly  to 
exert  his  talents,  at  the  request  of  his  friends,  even  in  seasons  wheJii 
such  exertion  could  hardly  have  been  made  without  a  painful  de- 
gree of  self-command. 

At  the  suggestion  of  Mr.  Newton  we  have  seen  him  writing  a 
series  of  hymns  :  at  the  request  of  Mr.  Bull  he  translated  several 
spiritual  songs  from  the  mystical  poetry  of  Madame  de  la  Mothe 
Guyon,  the  tender  and  fanciful  enthusiast  of  France,  whose  talents 
and  misfortunes  drew  upon  her  a  long  series  of  persecution  from 
many  acrimonious  bigots,  and  secured  to  her  the  friendship  of  the 
mild  and  indulgent  Fenelon  ! 

We  shall  perceive,  as  we  advance,  that  the  greater  works  of 
Cowper  were  also  written  at  the  express  desire  of  persons  whom 
he  particularly  regarded  ;  and  it  may  be  remarked,  to  the  honour 
of  friendship,  that  he  considered  its  influence  as  the  happiest  in- 
spiration ;  or,  to  use  his  own  expressive  words, 

The  Poet's  lyi-e,  to  fix  his  fame, 

Should  be  the  Poet's  heart : 
Affection  lights  a  brighter  flame 

Than  ever  blaz'd  by  art. 

The  poetry  of  Cowper  is  itself  an  admirable  illustration  of  this 
maxim  ;  and  perhaps  the  maxim  may  point  to  the  prime  source 
of  that  uncommon  force  and  felicity  with  which  this  most  feeling 
poet  commands  the  affection  of  his  reader. 

In  delineating  the  life  of  an  author,  it  seems  the  duty  of  bio- 
graphy to  indicate  the  degree  of  influence  which  the  warmth  of 
his  heart  produced  on  the  fertility  of  his  mind.  Bat  those  mingled 
flames  of  friendship  and  poetry  which  were  to  burst  forth  with 
the  most  powerfiil  effect  in  the  compositions  of  Cowper,  were  not 
yet  kindled.  His  depressive  malady  had  suspended  the  exercise 
of  his  genius  for  several  years,  and  precluded  him  from  renewing 
his  correspondence  with  the  relation  whom  he  so  cordially  re- 
garded, in  Hartfordshire,  except  by  the  brief  letters  on  pecuniary 
concerns,  in  1779.  But  in  the  spring  of  the  following  year,  a  let- 
ter to  Mr.  Hill  abundantly  proves  that  he  had  regained  the  free 
exercise  of  his  talents,  both  serious  and  sportive. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  Si 

LETTER  XXUL 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,   Esq. 

Ohiey,  May  6,  17S0. 
My  dear  Friend, 

I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  speedy 
■answer  to  my  queries.  I  know  less  of  the  law  th  m  a  country  at- 
torney, yet  sometimes  I  think  I  have  almost  as  much  business. 
My  former  connection  with  the  profession  has  got  wind,  and 
though  I  earnestly  profess,  and  protest,  and  proclaim  it  abroad, 
that  I  knov/  nothing  of  the  matter,  they  cannot  be  persuaded  to  be- 
lieve that  a  head  once  endued  with  a  legal  perriwig  can  ever  l)e 
deficient  in  those  natural  endov/ments  it  is  rupposed  to  cover.  I 
have  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  once  or  twice  in  the  ri:^ht,  which, 
added  to  the  cheapness  of  a  gratuitous  counsel,  has  advanced  my 
credit  to  a  degree  I  never  expected  to  attain  in  the  capacity  of  a 
Lawyer.  Indeed,  if  two  of  the  wisest  in  the  science  of  jurispru- 
dence may  give  opposite  opinions  upon  the  same  point,  which  does 
not  unfrequently  happen,  it  seems  to  be  a  matter  of  indifference 
whether  a  man  answers  by  rule  or  at  a  venture.  He  that  stumbles 
upon  the  right  side  of  the  question  is  just  as  useful  to  his  client  as 
he  that  arrives  at  the  same  end  by  regular  approaches,  and  is  con- 
ducted to  the  mark  he  aims  at  by  the  greatest  authorities. 
********** 

These  violent;  attacks  of  a  distemper,  so  often  fatal,  are  very 
alarming  to  all  who  esteem  and  respect  the  Chancellor  as  he  de- 
serves. A  life  of  confinement,  and  of  anxious  attention  to  impor- 
tant objects,  where  the  habit  is  bilious  to  such  a  terrible  degree, 
threatens  to  be  but  a  short  one  ;  and  I  wish  he  may  not  be  made  a 
text  for  men  of  reflection  to  moralize  upon,  affording  a  conspi- 
cuous instance  of  the  transient  and  fading  nature  of  all  human  ac- 
complishments and  attainments. 

Yours  aflfectionately, 

W.  COWPER. 


At  this  time  his  attention  was  irrcsistably  recalled  to  his  cou- 
sin, Mrs.  Cowper,  by  heaving  that  she  was  deeply  afflicted ;  and 
he  wrote  to  her  the  following  letter  on  the  loss  of  her  brother, 
Frederick  Madan,  a  soldier,  v/ho  died  in  America,  after  havini^ 

distinguished  himr.clf  I)y  poetical  talcjits,  as  well  as  by  military 
virtues. 


S4  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 


LETTER  XXIV. 
To  Mrs.  COWPER. 
My  dear  Cousin,  May  lOj  1780. 

I  do  not  write  to  comfort  you;  that 
cffice  is  not  likely  to  be  well  performed  by  one  who  has  no  comfort 
for  himself;  nor  to  comply  with  an  impertinent  ceremony,  which, 
in  general,  might  well  be  spared  upon  such  occasions ;  but  because 
I  would  not  seem  indifferent  to  the  concerns  of  those  I  have  so 
much  reason  to  esteem  and  love.  If  I  did  not  sorrow  for  your 
brother's  death,  I  should  expect  that  nobody  would  for  mine  :  when 
I  knew  him  he  was  much  beloved,  and  I  doubt  not  continued  to  be. 
so.  To  live  and  die  together  is  the  lot  of  a  few  happy  families, 
who  hardly  know  what  a  separation  means,  and  one  sepulchre 
serves  them  all ;  but  the  ashes  of  our  kindred  are  dispersed  in- 
deed. Whether  the  American  gulf  has  swallowed  up  any  other, 
of  my  relations  I  know  not ;  it  has  made  many  mourners. 

Believe  me,  my  dear  cousin,  though  after  long  silence,  which 
perhaps  nothing  less  than  the  present  concern  could  have  prevailed 
with  me  to  interrupt,  as  much  as  ever, 

Your  affectionate  kinsman, 

W.  C. 


The  next  letter  to  Mr.  Hill  affords  a  striking  proof  of  Cowper's. 
compassionate  feelings  towards  the  poor  around  him. 

LETTER  XXV. 

To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esq. 
MoN  Ami,  July  8,  1780. 

If  ever  you  take  the  tip  of  the  Chancellor's  ear 
between  j^our  finger  and  thumb,  you  can  hardly  improve  the  op- 
portunity to  better  purpose,  than  if  you  should  whisper  into  it  the 
voice  of  compassion  and  lenity  to  the  lace-makers.  I  am  an  eye 
witness  of  their  poverty,  and  do  know,  that  hundreds  in  this  little 
town  are  upon  the  point  of  starving,  and  that  the  most  unremit- 
ting industry  is  but  barely  sufficient  to  keep  them  from  it.  I  know 
that  the  bill  by  which  they  would  have  been  so  fatally  affected  is 
thrown  out;  but  Lord  Stormont  threatens  them  with  another;  and 
if  another  like  it  should  pass,  they  are  undone.  We  lately  sent  a 
petition  from  hence  to  Lord  Dartmouth ;  I  signed  it,  and  am  sure 
the  ct^ntents  are  true.  The  purport  of  it  was  to  inform  him  that 
there  are  very  near  one  thousand  two  hundred  lace-makers  in  this 
beggarly  town,  the  most  of  whom  had  reason  enough,  while  the  bill 


LIFE  OF  COWTER.  55 

was  in  agitation,  to  look  xipon  every  loaf  they  bought  as  the  last 
they  should  ever  be  able  to  earn.  I  can  never  think  it  good  policy 
to  incur  the  certain  inconvenience  of  ruining  thirty  thousand,  in 
order  to  prevent  a  remote  and  possible  damage,  though  to  a  much 
greater  number.  The  measure  is  like  a  scythe,  and  the  poor  lace- 
makers  are  the  sickly  crop  that  trembles  before  the  edge  of  it. 
The  prospect  of  peace  with  America  is  like  the  streak  of  dawn  in 
their  horizon ;  but  this  bill  is  like  a  black  cloud  behind  it,  that 
threatens  their  hope  of  a  comfortable  day  with  utter  extinction. 

I  did  not  perceive  till  this  moment  that  I  had  tacked  two  simi- 
lies  together,  a  practice,  which,  though  warranted  by  the  example 
of  Homer,  and  allowable  in  an  epic  poem,  is  rather  luxuriant  and 
licentious  in  a  letter ;  lest  I  should  add  another,  I  conclude. 


His  affectionate  effort  in  renewing  his  correspondence  with  Mrs. 
Cowper,  to  whom  he  had  been  accustomed  to  pour  forth  his  heart 
without  reserve,  appears  to  have  had  a  beneficial  effect  on  his  re- 
viving spirits.  This  pathetic  letter  was  followed,  in  the  course  of 
two  months,  by  a  letter  of  a  more  lively  cast,  in  which  the  reader 
will  find  some  touches  of  his  native  humour,  and  a  vein  of  plea- 
santry peculiar  to  himself. 

LETTER  XXVL 
To  Mrs  COWPER,  Park-Street,  Grosvenor-Square. 
My  dear  Cousin,  July  20,   17S0. 

Mr.  Newton  having  desired  me  to  be  of 
the  party,  I  am  come  to  meet  him.  You  see  me  sixteen  years 
older,  at  the  least,  than  when  I  saw  you  last ;  but  the  effects  of 
time  seem  to  have  taken  place  rather  on  the  outside  of  my  head 
than  within  it.  Wliat  was  brown  is  become  grey,  but  what  was 
foolish  remains  foolish  still.  Green  fruit  must  I'ot  before  it  ripens, 
if  the  season  is  such  as  to  afford  it  nothing  but  cold  winds  and  dark 
clouds,  that  interrupt  every  ray  of  sunshine.  My  days  steal  away 
silently,  and  march  on  (as  poor  mad  King  Lear  would  have  made 
his  soldiers  march)  as  if  they  were  shod  with  felt ;  not  so  silently 
but  that  I  hear  them  ;  yet  were  it  not  that  I  am  always  listening  Xa 
their  flight,  having  no  infirmity  that  I  had  not  when  I  was  muck 
younger,  I  should  deceive  myself  with  an  imagination  that  I  am 
still  young. 

I  am  fond  of  writing,  as  an  amusement,  but  I  do  not  always  find 
it  one.  Being  rather  scantily  furnished  with  subjects  that  are  good 
for  any  thing,  and  corresponding  only  with  those  who  have  no 
relish  for  such  as  are  good  for  nothing,  I  often  find  myself  reduced 


55  LIFE  or  COWPEK. 

fo  the  necessity,  the  disagreeable  necessity,  of  writing  about  myself* 
This  docs  not  mend  the  matter  much,  for  though  in  a  description 
of  my  own  condition,  I  discover  abundant  materials  to  employ  my 
pen  upon,  yet  as  the  task  is  not  very  agieeable  to  ?ne,  so  I  am  suf- 
ficiently aware,  that  it  is  likely  to  prove  irksome  to  others.  A 
painter  who  should  confine  himself,  in  the  exercise  of  his  art,  to 
the  drawing  of  his  own  picture,  must  be  a  wonderful  coxcomb, 
if  he  did  not  sobn  gTow  sick  of  hrs  occupation,  and  be  peculiarly 
fortunate,  if  he  did  not  make  others  as  sick  as  himself. 

Remote  as  your  dwelling  is  from,  the  late  scene  of  riot  arid  con- 
fusion, I  hope  that  tlioug-h  you  could  not  but  hear  the  report,  yoil 
heard  no  more,  and  that  the  roarings  of  the  mad  multitude  did 
not  reach  you..  That  was  a  day  of  terror  to  the  mnocent,  and  th6 
present  is  a  day  of  still  greater  terror  to  the  guilty.  The  law  was 
for  a  few  moments  like  an  arrow  in  the  quiver,  seemed  to  be  of  no 
use,  and  did  no  execution;  now  it  is  an  arrow  upon  the  string,  and 
many  v/ho  despised  it  lately,  ai'e  trembling  as  they  stand  before 
the  point  of  it. 

I  have  talked  more  already  than  I  have  formerly  done  in  three 
f isits ;  you  remember  my  taciturnity,  never  to  be  forgotten  by 
fhdse  who  knew  me  ;  not  to  depart  entirely  from  what  might  be, 
for  aught  I  know,  the  most  shining  part  of  my  character.'  I  iTere 
shut  my  mouth,  make  my  bow,  and  return  to  Olne}'. 

W.  C. 

The  next  is  a  little  more  serious  than  its  predecessor,  yet' 
equally  a  proof  that  the  affections  of  his'  heart,  and  the  energy  of 
kis  mind,  were  now  happily  restored. 

I-ETTER  XXVII. 
To  Mrs.  COWPER,    Park-Street,  Grosvenor-Square. 
My  dear  Cousin,  August  31,  1780, 

I  am  obliged  to  you  for  your  long  letter, 
wliich  did  not  seem  so,  and  for  your  short  one,  which  was  more 
than  I  had  reason  to  expect.  Short  as  it  was,  it  conveyed  to  me 
two  interesting  articles  of  intelligence.  An  account  of  your  reco- 
vering from  a  fever,  and  of  Lad)-  Cowper's  death.  The  latter 
T,-as,  I  suppose,  to  be  expected,  for  by  what  remembrance  I  have 
of  licr  Ladyship,  who  was  never  much  acquainted  with  her,  she 
had  reached  those  years  that  are  always  found  upon  the  borders 
(if  another  woi-ld.  As  for  you,  your  time  of  life  is  comparatively 
cf  a  J  cuthful  date.  You  may  think  of  death  as  much  as  you  please 
(\cu  cannot  think  of  it  too  much),  but  I  hope  you  will  live  to  think 
cf  it  maTsy  jears. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  57 

It  costs  me  not  much  difficulty  to  suppose  that  my  friends,  who 
were  already  grown  old,  when  I  saw  thcni  last,  are  old  still ;  but 
it  costs  me  a  good  deal  sometimes  to  think  of  those  who  were  at 
that  time  young,  as  being  older  than  they  were.  Not  having  been 
an  eye  witness  of  the  change  that  time  has  made  in  them,  and  my 
former  idea  of  them  not  being  corrected  by  observation,  it  remains 
the  same;  my  memory  presents  me  with  this  image  unimpaired, 
and  while  it  retains  the  resemblance  of  what  they  were,  forgets  that 
by  this  time  the  pictui-e  may  have  lost  much  of  its  likeness,  througli 
the  alteration  that  succeeding  years  have  made  in  the  original.  I 
know  not  what  impressions  time  may  have  made  upon  your  per- 
son ;  for  while  his  claws  (as  our  Grannams  called  them)  strike  deep 
furrows  in  some  faces,  he  seems  to  slieath  them  with  much  ten- 
derness, as  if  fearful  of  doing  injury  to  others.  But  though  an 
^nemy  to  the  person,  he  is  a  friend  to  the  mind,  and  you  have 
found  him  so.  Though  even  in  this  respect  his  treatment  of  us  de- 
pends upon  Avhat  he  meets  with  at  our  hands ;  if  we  use  him  well, 
and  listen  to  his  admonitions,  he  is  a  friend  indeed,  but  otherwise 
the  worst  of  enemies,  who  takes  from  us  daily  something  that  we 
valued,  and  gives  us  nothing  better  in  its  stdad.  It  is  well  with 
them,  who,  like  you,  can  stand  a  tip -toe  oh  the  mountain  top  of 
human  life,  look  down  with  pleasure  upon  the  valley  they  have 
passed,  and  sometimes  stretch  their  wings  in  joyful  hope  of  a 
happy  flight  into  eternity.  Yet  a  little  while  and  your  hope  will 
be  accomplished. 

When  you  can  favour  me  vi'ith  a  little  account  of  your  ov/n  fa- 
mily without  inconvenience,  I  shall  be  glad  to  receive  it ;  for 
though  separated  from  my  kindred  by  little  more  than  half  a  cen- 
tury of  miles,  I  know  as  little  of  their  concerns  as  if  oceans  and 
continents  were  interposed  between  us. 

Yours,  my  dear  cousin, 

Wm.  COWPGR. 

I'hc  following  letter  to  Mr.  Hill  contains  a  poem  already 
printed  in  the  works  of  Cowper,  but  the  reader  will  probably  be 
gratifi'xl  in  finding  a  little  favourite  piece  of  pleasantry  introduced 
to  him,  as  it  v/as  originally  dispatched  by  the  author  for  the 
amusement  of  a  friend. 

LETTER  XXVIIL 

To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esq. 

Mv  DKAR  Friend,  Dec.  25,  1780. 

Weary  with  rather  a  long  walk  in  tlie  snow, 
I  am  not  likely  to  write  a  very  sprightly  letter,  or  to  produce  any 

VOL.  I.  I 


58  LltE  OF  COWPER. 

tiling  that  ma}''  cheer  this  gloomy  season,  unless  I  have  recoiu'se  to 
my  pocket-book,  where,  perhaps,  I  may  find  something  to  tran« 
scribe ;  something  that  was  written  before  the  Sun  had  taken  leave 
of  our  hemisphere,  and  when  I  was  less  fatigued  than  I  am  at 
present. 

Happy  is  the  man  who  knows  just  so  much  of  the  law  as  to 
make  himself  a  little  merry  now  and  then  with  the  solemnity  of 
juridical  proceedings.  I  have  heard  of  common  law  judgments 
before  now,  indeed  have  been  present  at  the  delivery  of  some,  that, 
according  to  my  poor  apprehension,  while  they  paid  the  utmost  re- 
spect to  the  letter  of  a  statute,  have  departed  widely  from  the 
spirit  of  it,  and,  btfing  governed  entirely  by  the  point  of  law,  have 
left  equity,  reason,  and  common  sense  behind  them  at  an  infinite 
distance.  You  will  judge  whether  the  following  I'eport  of  a  case, 
drawn  up  by  myself,  be  not  a  proof  and  illustration  of  this  sa- 
tyrical  assertion. 

NOSE,  Flaintif— EYES,  Defendants, 
1. 

BetAveen  Nose  and  Eyes  a  sad  contest  arose, 
The  Spectacles  set  them  unhappily  wrong, 
The  point  in  dispute  was,  as  all  the  world  knows. 
To  which  the  said  Spectacles  ought  to  belong. 

2. 
So  the  Tongue  Avas  the  Lawer,  and  argued  the  cause 
V\^ith  a  great  deal  of  skill,  and  a  wig  full  of  learning. 
While  chief  Baron  Ear,  sat  to  balance  the  laws. 
So  fam'd  for  his  talents  at  nicely  di-scerning. 

3. 
In  behalf  of  the  Nose,  it  Avill  quickly  appear. 
And  your  Lordship,  he  said,  will  undoubtedly  find, 
That  the  Nose  has  had  Spectacles  always  in  wear, 
"Which  amounts  to  possession,  time  out  of  mind. 

4. 
Then  holding  the  Spectacles  up  to  the  Court, 
Your  Lordship  obsei-ves  they  are  made  with  a  straddle 
As  wide  as  the  ridge  of  the  Nose  is,  in  short, 
Design'd  to  sit  close  to  it,  just  like  a  saddle. 

5. 
Again  would  your  Lordship  a  moment  suppose, 
(Tis  a  case  that  has  happen'd,  and  may  be  again) 
That  the  visage  or  countenance  had  not  a  Nose, 
Pray  who  would,  or  who  could,  wear  Spectacles  then  ? 


LIFE  OF  COWPEH.  $9 

6. 
On  the  whole  it  appears,  and  my  ai'gument  shows, 
With  a  reasoning  the  Court  will  never  condemn. 
That  the  Spectacles  plainly  were  made  for  the  Nose, 
And  the  Nose  was  as  plainly  intended  for  them. 

7. 
Then  shifting  his  side,  as  a  Lawj'er  knows  how, 
He  pleaded  again  in  behalf  of  the  Eyes ; 
But  what  were  his  arguments  few  people  know, 
For  the  Court  did  not  think  they  wei*e  equally  wise. 

■  8. 
So  his  Lordship  decreed,  with  a  grave  solemn  tone, 
Decisive  and  clear,  without  one  if  or  but, 
That  whenever  the  Nose  put  his  Spectacles  on. 
By  day-light,  or  candle-light — Eyes  should  be  shut ! 
Yours  affectionately, 

VV.  COWPER. 


LETTER  XXIX. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,   Esq. 

Feb.  15,  irsi. 
Mv  DEAR  Friend, 

I  am  glad  you  were  pleased  with  my  report  of 
so  extraordinary  a  case.  If  the  thought  of  versifying  the  decisions 
of  our  Courts  of  Justice  had  struck  me,  while  I  had  the  honour 
to  attend  them,  it  would  perhaps  have  been  no  difficult  matter 
to  have  compiled  a  volume  of  such  amusing  and  interesting  prece- 
dents, which,  if  they  wanted  the  eloquence  of  the  Greek  or  Roman 
oratory,  would  have  amply  compensated  that  deficiency  by  the 
harmony  of  i-hjTne  and  metre. 

Your  account  of  my  uncle  and  your  mother  gave  me  great  plea- 
sure. I  have  long  been  afraid  to  inquire  after  some  in  whose  wel- 
fare I  always  feel  myself  interested,  lest  the  question  should  pro- 
duce a  painful  answer.  Longevity  is  the  lot  of  so  few,  and  is  so 
seldom  rendered  comfortable  by  the  associations  of  good  health  and 
good  spirits,  that  I  could  not  very  reasonably  suppose  either  your 
relations  or  mine  so  Iiappy  in  those  respects  as  it  seems  they  are. 
May  they  continue  to  enjoy  those  blessings  so  long  as  the  date  of 
life  shall  last.  I  do  not  think  that  in  these  coster-monger  days,  as 
I  have  a  notion  Falstaff  calls  them,  an  antediluvian  age  is  at  all  a 
desirable  thing;  but  to  live  comfortcibly,  while  we  do  live,  is  a  great 
matter,  and  comprehends  in  it  every  thing  that  can  be  wished  for 
pn  this  bide  the  curtain  t)iathanc:s  bctvvxcn  Time  and  Eternity, 


60  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

Farewell  my  better  friend  than  any  I  have  to  boast  of  eithei' 
among  the  Lords  or  Gentlemen  of  the  House  of  Commons, 

Yours  ever, 

Wm.  COWPER. 

The  reviving  Poet,  who  had  hved  half  a  century  with  such  a  mo- 
dest idea  of  his  own  extraordinary  talents,  that  he  had  hitherto 
given  no  composition  professedly  to  the  public,  now  amused  himself 
with  preparations  to  appear  as  an  author.  But  he  hoped  to  con- 
duct those  preparations  with  a  modest  secrecy,  and  was  astonisheci 
to  find  one  of  his  intimate  friends  apprized  of  his  design. 

LETTER  XXX. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esg. 

May  9,  irSl. 
My  DEAR  Sir, 

I  am  in  the  press,  and  it  is  in  vain  to  deny  it* 
But  how  mysterious  is  the  conveyance  of  intelligence  from  one  end 
to  the  other  of  your  great  city  ! — Not  many  days  since,  except  one 
man,  and  he  but  little  taller  than  vourself,  all  London  v.as  ignorant 
of  it ;  for  I  do  not  suppose  that  the  public  prints  have  yet  announced 
the  most  agi-eeable  tidings,  the  title-page,  which  is  the  basis  of  the 
advcrtipemeiit,  having  so  lately  reached  the  publisher;  and  now  ii 
is  known  to  you,  who  live  at  least  two  miles  distant  from  my  confi- 
dant upon  tlie  occasion. 

My  labours  are  principally  the  production  of  the  last  winter ;  all 
indeed,  except  a  few  of  the  minor  pieces.  When  I  can  find  no 
other  occupation,  I  think ;  ai  d  when  I  think,  I  am  very  apt  to  do 
it  in  rhyme.  Hence  it  comes  to  pass  that  the  season  of  the  year 
which  generally  pinches  off  the  flowers  of  poetry,  unfolds  mine, 
such  as  they  are,  and  cro-svns  me  with  a  winter  garland.  In  this 
respect,  therefore,  I  and  my  cotemporary  Bards  are  by  no  means 
upon  a  par.  They  write  when  the  delightful  influences  of  fine 
"weather,  fine  prospects,  and  a  brisk  motion  of  the  animal  spirits 
make  poetry  almost  the  language  of  nature :  and  I,  when  icicles 
depend  from  all  the  leaves  of  the  Parnassian  laurel,  and  when  a 
reasonable  man  would  as  little  expect  to  succeed  in  verse  as  to  hear 
a.  black-bird  whistle.  This  must  be  my  apology  to  you  for  whatever 
•want  of  fire  and  animation  you  may  observe  in  what  you  will  shortly 
have  the  perusal  of.  As  to  the  public,  if  they  like  me  not,  there 
is  no  remedy.  A  friend  will  weigh  and  consider  all  disadvantages, 
and  make  as  large  allowances  as  an  author  can  wish,  and  larger 
perhaps  than  he  has  any  right  to  expect ;  but  not  so  the  world  at 
large;  whatever  they  do  not  like,  they  will  not  by  uny  apology  be 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  61 

I>ersuadecl  to  forgive,  and  it  would  be  in  vain  to  tell  them  that  I 
Vfotc  my  verses  in  January,  for  tlicy  would  immediately  reply, 
"  why  did  not  you  write  them  in  May?"  A  question  that  might 
puzzle  a  wiser  head  than  we  Poets  are  gencrall}  blessed  with. 


I  was  informed  by  Mrs.  Unwin  that  she  strongly  solicited  her 
friend  to  devote  his  thoughts  to  Poetiy,  of  considerable  extent,  on 
his  recovery  from  his  very  long  fit  of  mental  dejection,  suggesting 
to  him,  at  the  same  time,  the  first  subject  of  his  song,  "  The  pro- 
grees  of  Errorl"  which  the  reader  will  recollect  as  the  second  poem 
in  his  first  volume.  The  time  when  that  volume  was  completed, 
and  the  motives  of  its  excellent  author  for  giving  it  to  the  world, 
are  clearly  displayed  in  the  following  very  intei'esting  letter  to  liis 
fair  poetical  cousin. 

LETTER  XXXL 
To  Mrs.  COWPER. 

October  19,  1781. 
My  dear  Cousin, 

Your  fear  lest  I  should  think  you  unwor- 
thy of  my  correspondence  on  account  of  your  delay  to  answer,  may 
change  sides  now,  and  more  properly  belongs  to  me.  It  is  long- 
since  I  received  your  last,  and  yet  I  believe  I  can  say  truly  that 
not  a  post  has  gone  by  me  since  the  receipt  of  it,  that  has  not  ^  i-e- 
minded  me  of  the  debt  lov/e  you  for  your  obliging  and  unreserved 
cornmimications,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  especially  for  the  latter, 
because  I  consider  them  as  marks  of  your  peculiar  confidence. 
The  truth  is,  I  have  been  such  a  verse-maker  myself,  and  so  busy 
in  preparing  a  volume  for  the  press,  which  I  imagine  will  make 
its  appearance  in  the  course  of  the  winter,  that  I  hardly  had  lei- 
sure to  listen  to  the  calls  of  any  other  engagement.  It  is,  however, 
finished,  and  gone  to  the  printer's,  and  I  have  nothing  now  to  do 
with  it,  but  to  correct  the  sheets  as  they  are  sent  to  me,  and 
consign  it  over  to  the  judgment  of  the  public.  It  is  a  bold  un- 
dertaking at  this  time  of  day,  when  so  many  writers  of  the  greatest 
abilities  have  gone  before,  who  seem  to  have  anticipated  every 
valuable  subject,  as  well  as  all  the  graces  of  poetical  embellish- 
ment, to  step  forth  into  the  world  in  the  character  of  a  bard, 
especially  when  it  is  considered  that  luxury,  idleness,  and  vice 
liave  debauched  the  public  taste,  and  that  nothing  hardly  is  wel- 
come, but  childish  fiction,  or  what  has  at  least  a  tendency  to  excite 
a  laugh.  I  thought,  however,  that  I  had  stumliled  upon  some  sub- 
jects that  had  never  before  been  pc^eticalh"  treated,  and  upon  some 
VrUicx-s,  to  which  I  imagined  it  wouhl  not  be  difficult  to  gi\  c  an  air 


€2  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

of  novelty,  by  the  manner  of  treating  them.  My  sole  drift  is  to  be 
tisefal ;  a  point  which,  however,  I  knew  I  should  in  vain  aim  at, 
unless  I  coiild  be  likewise  entertaining.  I  have,  therefore,  fixed 
these  two  strings  upon  my  bow,  and  by  the  help  of  both  have  done  my 
best  to  send  m}'  arrow  to  the  mark.  My  readers  will  hardly  have 
begmi  to  laugh,  before  they  will  be  called  upon  to  correct  that  le- 
vity, and  peruse  me  with  a  more  serious  air.  As  to  the  effect,  I 
leave  it  alone  in  his  hands  who  can  alone  produce  it ;  neither  prose 
nor  verse  can  reform  the  manners  of  a  dissolute  age,  much  less 
can  they  inspire  a  sense  of  religious  obligation,  unless  assisted  and 
made  efficacious  by  the  power  who  superintends  the  truth  he  has 
vouchsafed  to  impart. 

You  made  my  heart  ache  with  a  sympathetic  sorrow,  Avhen  you 
described  the  state  of  your  mind  on  occasion  of  your  late  visit  into 
Hartfordshire.  Had  I  been  previously  informed  of  your  journey 
before  you  made  it,  I  should  have  been  able  to  have  foretold  aU 
your  feelings  with  the  most  unerring  certainty  of  prediction.  You 
■will  never  cease  to  feel  upon  that  subject ;  but  with  your  principles 
of  resignation  and  acquiescence  in  the  divine  will,  you  will  always 
feel  as  becomes  a  Christian.  We  are  forbidden  to  murmur,  but 
■we  are  not  forbidden  to  regret ;  and  whom  we  loved  tenderly  while 
living,  we  may  still  pursue  with  an  affectionate  remembrance, 
without  having  any  occasion  to  charge  ourselves  with  rebellion 
against  the  Sovereignty  that  appointed  a  separation.  A  day  is 
coming,  when  I  am  confident  you  will  see  and  know  that  mercy 
to  both  parties  was  the  principal  agent  in  a  scene,  the  recollection 
of  which  is  still  painful. 

Those  who  read  what  the  Pcet  has  here  said  of  his  intended  pub- 
lication, may  perhaps  think  it  strange  that  it  was  introduced  to 
the  world  with  a  preface  not  written  by  himself,  but  by  his  friend, 
Mr.  Newton.  The  circumstance  is  singular ;  but  it  arose  from 
two  amiable  peculiarities  in  the  character  of  Cowper,  his  extreme 
diffidence  in  regard  to  himself,  and  his  kind  eagerness  to  gratify 
the  affectionate  ambition  of  a  friend,  whom  he  tenderly  esteemed ! 
Mr.  Newton  has  avowed  the  fervency  of  this  ambition  in  a  very 
ingenuous  and  manly  manner ;  and  they  must  have  little  candour, 
indeed,  who  are  disposed  to  cavil  at  his  alacrity  in  presenting  him- 
self to  tlie  public  as  the  bosom  friend  of  that  incomparable  author 
•whom  he  had  attended  so  faithfully  in  sickness  and  in  sorrow  ! — I 
hope  it  is  no  sin  to  covet  honour  as  the' friend  of  Cowper,  for  if  it 
is,  I  fear  I  may  say  but  too  truly  in  the  words  of  Shakspearcj 

"  I  am  the  most  offending  soul  alive," 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  63 

Jiappy,  however,  if  I  may  be  able  so  to  conduct  and  finish  this 
biographical  compilation,  that  those  Avho  knew  and  loved  him  best 
may  be  the  most  willing  to  applaud  me  as  his  friend ;  a  title  that 
my  heart  prefers  to  all  other  distinction  ! 

The  immediate  success  of  his  first  volume  was  very  far  from 
being  equal  to  its  extraordinary  merit.  For  some  time  it  seemed 
to  be  neglected  by  the  public,  and  although  the  first  poem  in  the 
collection  contains  such  a  powerful  image  of  its  author,  as  might 
bethought  sufficient  not  only  to  excite  attention,  but  to  secure  at- 
tachment :  for  Cowper  had  undesignedly  executed  a  masterly  por- 
trait of  himself,  in  describing  the  true  poet :  I  allude  to  the  fol- 
lowing verses  in  "  Table  Talk." 

Nature,  exerting  an  unwearied  power, 

Forms,  opens,  and  gives  scent  to  every  flower ; 

Spreads  the  fresh  verdure  of  the  field,  and  leads 

The  dancing  Naiads  through  the  dewy  meads  : 

She  fills  profuse  ten  thousand  little  throats 

With  music,  modulating  all  their  notes ; 

And  charms  the  woodland  scenes,  and  wilds  unknow% 

With  ai'tless  airs,  and  concerts  of  her  own : 

But  seldom  (as  if  fearful  of  expense) 

Vouchsafes  to  man  a  poet's  just  pretence — 

Fervency,  freedom,  fluency  of  thought. 

Harmony,  strength,  words  exquisitely  sought ; 

Fancy,  that  from  the  bow  that  spans  the  sky 

Brings  colours,  dipt  in  Heaven,  that  never  die ; 

A  soul  exalted  above  eai'th,  a  mind 

Skill'd  in  the  characters  that  form  mankind ; 

And,  as  the  Sun,  in  rising  beauty  drest, 

Looks  from  the  dappled  orient  to  the  West, 

And  marks,  Avhatever  clouds  may  interpose, 

Ere  yet  his  race  begins,  its  glorious  close  ; 

An  eye  like  his  to  catch  the  distant  goal, 

Or,  ere  the  wheels  of  verse  begin  to  roll, 

Like  his  to  shed  illuminating  rays 

On  every  scene  and  subject  it  surveys : 

Thus  grac'd  the  man  asserts  a  poet's  name, 

And  the  world  cheerfiilly  admits  the  claim. 

The  concluding  lines  may  be  considered  as  an  omen  of  that  ce- 
lebrity, which  such  a  writer,  in  the  process  of  time,  could  not 
fail  to  obtain.  Yet  powerful  as  the  claims  of  Cowper  were  to  in- 
stant admiration  and  applause,  it  must  be  allowed  (as  an  apology 


64  LIFE  OF  COVVPER. 

for  the  inattention  of  the  public)  that  he  hazarded  some  senti  men'':1 
in  his  first  volume  which  were  very  likely  to  obstruct  its  immediate 
success  in  the  Avorld.  I  particularly  allude  to  his  bold  eulogy  on 
Whitfield,  whom  the  dramatic  satire  of  Foote,  in  his  Comedy  of 
the  Minor,  had  taught  the  nation  to  deride  as  a  mischievous  fa- 
natic. I  allude  also  to  a  little  acrimonious  censure,  in  which  he 
had  indulged  himself,  against  one  of  Whitfield's  devout  rivals,  Mr. 
Charles  Wesley,  for  allowing  sacred  music  to  form  a  part  of  his 
occupation  on  a  Simday  evening.  Such  praise,  and  such  reproof, 
bestowed  on  popular  enthusiasts,  might  easily  induce  many  care- 
less readers,  unacquainted  with  the  singular  mildness  and  purity  of 
character  that  really  belonged  to  the  new  Poet,  to  reject  his  book, 
without  giving  it  a  fair  perusal,  as  the  production  of  a  recluse,  in- 
flamed witli  the  fierce  spirit  of  bigt)try.  No  supposition  could  have 
been  wider  from  the  truth;  for  Cowper  was  indeed  a  rare  example 
of  true  Christian'  benevolence  :  yet,  as  the  best  of  men  have  their 
little  occasional  foibles,  he  allowed  himself,  sometimes  with  his  pen, 
but  never,  I  believe,  in  conversation,  to  speak  rather  acrimoniously 
of  several  pursuits  and  pastimes,  that  seem  not  to  deserve  any 
austerltv  of  reproof.  Of  this  he  was  aware  himself,  and  con- 
fessed it,  in  the  most  ingenuous  manner,  on  the  following  occasion. 
One  of  his  intim.ate  friends  had  written,  in  the  first  volume  of  his 
Poems,  the  following  passage  from  the  younger  Pliny,  as  descrip- 
tive of  the  Book :  "  Malta  ienuiter,  multa  sublimiter^  multa  ve- 
7iuste,  multa  tenere,  viulta  dulciter^  multa  cum  bile."  Many 
passages  are  delicate,  many  sublime,  many  beautiful,  many 
tender,  many  sweet,  many  acrimonious. 

Cowper  was  pleased  with  the  application,  and  said,  with  the  ut- 
most candour  and  sincerity,  "  The  latter  part  is  veiy  true  indeed ; 
yes!  yes!  there  are  "  multa  cum  bile,"  many  acrim'onious. 

These  little  occasional  touches  of  austerity  would  naturally  arise 
in  a  life  so  sequestered;  but  how  just  a  subject  of  surprize  and 
adipiration  is  it,  to  l)chokl  an  author  starting  under  such  a  load  of 
disadvantages,  and  displaying,  on  the  sudden,  such  a  variety  of 
excellence !  For,  neglected  as  it  was  for  a  few  years,  the  first  vo- 
lume of  Cowper  exhibits  such  a  diversity  of  poetical  powers,  as 
have  been  given  very  rarely  indeed  to  any  individual  of  the  modern 
or  of  the  ancient  world.  He  is  not  only  great  in  passages  of  pathos 
and  sublimity,  but  he  is  equally  admirable  in  wit  and  humour. 
After  desc'jnting  most  copiously  on  sacred  subjects,  with  the  anima- 
tion of  a  Prophet,  and  the  simplicity  of  an  Apostle,  lie  paints  the 
ludicrous  characters  of  common  life  with  the  comic  force  of  Mo- 
licre;  particulaj-ly  in  his  Poem  on  Conversation,  and  his  exquisite 
portrait  of  a  fretful  temper :  a  piece  of  moral  painting  so  highly 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  6S 

finished,  and  so  happily  calculated  to  promote  good  humour,  that 
a  transcript  of  the  verses  shall  close  the  first  part  of  these  Me- 
moirs, 

Some  fretfiil  tempers  wince  at  every  touch; 
You  always  do  too  little  or  too  much : 
You  speak  with  life,  in  hopes  to  entertain ; 
Your  elevated  voice  goes  through  the  brain: 
You  fall  at  once  into  a  lower  key ; 
That's  worse  : — the  drone-pipe  of  an  humble  Bee! 
The  Southern  sash  admits  too  strong  a  light ; 
You  rise  and  drop  the  curtain : — now  its  night. 
He  shakes  with  cold ; — you  stir  the  fire,  and  strive 
To  make  a  blaze: — that's  roasting  him  alive. 
Serve  him  with  ven'son,  and  he  chooses  Fish; 
With  soal — that's  just  the  sort  he  would  not  wish. 
He  takes  what  he  at  first  profess'd  to  loath ; 
And  in  due  time  feeds  heartily  on  both : 
Yet,  still  o'erclouded  with  a  constant  frown ; 
He  does  not  swallow,  but  he  gulps  it  down. 
Your  hope  to  please  him  vain  on  every  plan, 
Himself  should  work  that  wonder,  if  he  can. 
Alas  I  his  efforts  double  his  distress ; 
He  likes  yours  little,  and  his  own  still  less. 
Thus  always  teazing  others,  always  teaz'd. 
His  only  pleasure  is — to  be  displeas'd. 


END  OF  THE  FIRST  PART. 


VOL.  1, 


THE 

LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

PART  THE  SECOND. 


J\  NEW  ssra  opens  in  the  history  of  the  Poet,  from  an  incident 
that  gave  fresh  ardour  and  vivacity  to  his  fertile  imagination.  In 
September,  1781,  he  happened  to  form  an  acquaintance  with  a  lady, 
highly  accomplished  herself,  and  singularly  happy  in  animating 
and  directing  the  fancy  of  her  poetical  friends.  The  world  will 
perfectly  agree  with  me  in  this  eulogy,  \Then  I  add,  that  to  this 
lady  we  are  primarily  indebted  for  the  Poem  of  the  Task,  for  the 
Ballad  of  John  Gilpin,  and  for  the  Translation  of  Homer.  But  in 
my  lively  sense  of  her  merit,  I  am  almost  forgetting  my  immediate 
duty,  as  the  Biographer  of  the  Poet,  to  introduce  her  circumstan- 
tially to  the  acquaintance  of  my  Reader* 

A  lady,  whose  name  was  Jones,  was  one  of  the  few  neighbours 
admitted  in  the  residence  of  the  retired  Poet.  She  was  the  wife  of 
a  Clergyman,  who  resided  at  the  village  of  Clifton,  within  a  mile 
of  Olney.  Her  sister,  the  widow  of  Sir  Robert  Austen,  Baronet, 
came  to  pass  some  time  with  her  in  the  Autumn  of  1781;  and  as 
the  two  ladies  chanced  to  call  at  a  shop  in  Olney,  opposite  to  the 
house  of  Mrs.  Unwin,  Cowper  olDserved  them  from  his  window. — 
Altliough  naturally  shy,  and  now  rendered  more  so  by  his  very  long 
illness,  he  was  so  struck,  with  the  appearance  of  the  stranger,  that 
on  hearing  she  was  sister  to  Mrs.  Jones,  he  requested  Mrs.  Unwiix 
to  invite  them  to  tea.  So  strong  was  his  reluctance  to  admit  the 
company  of  strangers,  that  after  he  had  occasioned  this  invitation, 
he  was  for  a  long  time  unAvilling  to  join  the  little  party;  but 
iiaving  forced  himself  at  last  to  engage  in  conversation  with  Lady 
Austen,  he  was  so  reanimated  by  her  uncommon  colloquial  talents, 
that  he  attended  the  Ladies  on  their  return  to  Chiton,  and  from 
that  time  continued  to  cultivate  the  regard  of  his  new  acquaintance 
with  such  assiduous  attention,  that  she  soon  received  from  him  Uic 
familiar  and  endearing  title  of  Sister  Ann. 


68  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

The  great  and  happy  influence  which  an  incident,  that'seemss 
at  first  sight  so  trivial,  produced  very  rapidly  on  the  imagination 
of  Cowper,  will  best  appear  from  the  following  Epistle,  which, 
soon  after  Lady  Austen's  return  to  London  for  the  winterj  the  Poet 
addressed  to  her,  on  the  irth  of  December,  1781. 

Dear  Anna— Between  friend  and  friend, 
Prose  answers  every  common  end ; 
Serves,  in  a  plain,  and  homely  way, 
T'  express  th'  occurrence  of  the  day ; 
Our  health,  the  weather,  and  the  news ; 
What  walks  we  take,  what  books  we  choose  j 
And  all  the  floating  thoughts,  we  find 
Upon  the  sui'face  of  the  mind. 

But  when  a  Poet  takes  the  pem, 
Far  mdre  alive  than  other  men, 
He  feels  a  gentle  tingling  come 
Down  to  his  finger  and  his  thumb, 
Deriv'd  from  nature's  noblest  part, 
The  centre  of  a  glowing  heart ! 
And  this  is  what  the  world,  who  knows 
Ko  flights  above  the  pitch  of  prose. 
His  more  sublime  vagaries  slighting, 
Denominates  an  itch  for  writing. 
No  wonder  I,  who  scribble  rhyme, 
To  catch  the  triflers  of  the  time. 
And  tell  them  truths  divine  and  clear. 
Which,  couch'd  in  pi'ose,  they  will  not  hear; 
Who  labour  hard  to  allure,  and  draw 
The  loiterers  I  never  saw. 
Should  feel  that  itching,  and  that  tingling, 
With  all  my  purpose  intermingling. 
To  your  intrinsic  merit  true. 
When  call'd  to  address  myself  to  you. 

Mysterious  are  his  ways,  whose  power 
Brings  forth  that  unexpected  hour, 
When  minds  that  never  met  before. 
Shall  meet,  unite,  and  part  no  more : 
It  is  th'  allotment  of  the  skies. 
The  Hand  of  the  Supremely  Wise, 
That  guides  and  governs  our  affections, 
And  plans  and  orders  our  connections  j 


LIFE  OF  CO\^TER.  $9 

Directs  us  in  our  distant  i-oacl, 
And  marks  the  bounds  of  our  abode. 
Thus  we  were  settled  when  you  found  us, 
Peasants  and  children  all  around  us, 
Not  dreaming  of  so  dear  a  friend, 
Deep  in  the  abyss  of  Silver-End.* 
Thus  Martha,  even  against  her  will, 
Perch 'd  on  the  top  of  yonder  hill; 
And  you,  though  you  must  needs  prefer 
The  fairer  scenes  of  sweet  Sancerre,t 
Are  come  from  distant  Loire,  to  choose 
A  cottage  on  the  Banks  of  Ouse. 
This  page  of  Providence  quite  new, 
And  now  just  opening  to  our  view. 
Employs  our  present  thoughts  and  pains, 
To  guess,  and  spell,  what  it  contains: 
But  day  by  day,  and  year  by  year. 
Will  make  the  dark  xnigma  clear ; 
And  furnish  us,  perhaps,  at  last, 
Like  other  scenes  already  past, 
With  proof,  that  we  and  our  affairs 
Are  part  of  a  Jehovah's  cares: 
For  God  unfolds,  by  slow  degrees, 
The  purport  of  his  deep  decrees ; 
Sheds  every  hour  a  clearer  light 
In  aid  of  our  defective  sight ; 
And  spreads  at  length,  before  the  soul, 
A  beautiful  and  perfect  whole. 
Which  busy  man's  inventive  brain 
Toils  to  anticipate  in  vain. 

Say,  Anna,  had  you  never  known 
The  beauties  of  a  Rose  full  blown, 
Could  you,  though  luminous  your  eye, 
By  looking  on  the  bud,  descry. 
Or  guess,  with  a  pi-ophetic  power, 
The  future  splendour  of  the  flower  ? 
Just  so  th'  Omnipotent,  who  turns 
The  system  of  a  world's  concerns, 
From  mere  minutix  can  educe 
Events  of  most  important  use, 

»  An   obscure  part  of  Olney,  adjoining  to  the  iCMiiencc  of  Cowpei,  whicli  faced  tlie 
iiiarkct-place. 

+  Lady  Austen's  residence  in  France. 


yo  Life  of  cowpek* 

And  bid  a  dawning  sky  display 

Tlie  blaze  of  a  meridian  day. 

The  works  of  man  tend,  one  and  all, 

As  needs  they  must,  from  great  to  small ; 

And  vanity  absorbs  at  length 

The  monuments  of  human  strength. 

But  who  can  tell  how  vast  the  plan 

Wliich  this  day's  incident  began  ? 

Too  small,  perhaps,  the  slight  occasion 

For  our  dim-sighted  observation ; 

It  pass'd  unnotic'd,  as  the  bird  ' 

That  cleaves  the  yielding  air  unheard, 

And  yet  may  prove,  when  understood, 

An  harbinger  of  endless  good. 

Not  that  I  deem,  or  mean  to  call. 
Friendship  a  blessing  cheap  or  small ; 
But  merely  to  remark,  that  ours. 
Like  some  of  nature's  sweetest  flowers, 
Rose  from  a  seed  of  tiny  size. 
That  seem'd  to  promise  no  such  prize: 
A  transient  visit  intervening. 
And  made  almost  without  a  meaning, 
(Hardly  the  effect  of  inclination. 
Much  less  of  pleasing  expectation!) 
Produc'd  a  friendship,  then  begim, 
That  has  cemented  us  in  one ; 
And  plac'd  it  in  our  power  to  prove, 
By  long  fidelity  and  love. 
That  Solomon  has  wisely  spoken : 
"  A  three-fold  cord  is  not  soon  broken." 

In  this  interesting  Poem  the  Author  expresses  a  lively  and  devolit 
presage  of  the  superior  productions  that  were  to  arise,  in  the  pro- 
cess of  time,  from  a  friendship  so  unexpected,  and  so  pleasing; 
but  he  does  not  seem  to  have  been  aware,  in  the  slightest  degree, 
of  the  evident  dangers  that  must  naturally  attend  an  intimacy  so 
very  close,  yet  perfectly  innocent,  between  a  Poet  and  two  Ladies, 
who,  with  very  different  mental  powers,  had  each  reason  to  flatter 
herself  that  she  could  agreealjly  promote  the  studies,  and  animate 
the  fancy  of  this  fascinating  Bard. 

Genius  of  the  most  exquisite  kind  is  sometimes,  and  perhaps 
generally,  so  modest  and  diffident,  as  to  require  continual  solici- 
tation and  encouragement  from  the  voice  of  sympathy  and  frioiid- 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  71 

ship,  to  lead  it  into  permanent  and  successful  exertion.  Such  was 
the  genius  of  Cowper ;  and  he  therefore  considered  the  cheerful 
and  animating  society  of  his  new  accomplished  friend,  as  a  bless- 
ing conferred  on  him  by  the  signal  favour  of  Providence.  She  re- 
tvu-ned  the  following  summer  to  the  house  of  her  sister,  situated  on 
the  brow  of  a  hill,  the  foot  of  which  is  washed  by  the  River  Ouse, 
as  it  flows  between  Clifton  and  Olney.  Her  benevolent  ingenuity 
was  exerted  to  guard  the  spirits  of  Cowper  from  sinking  again  into 
that  hypochondriacal  dejection  to  which,  even  in  her  company,  he 
still  sometimes  discovered  an  alarming  tendency.  To  promote  his 
occupation  and  amusement,  she  furnished  him  with  a  small  porta- 
ble printing-press,  and  he  gratefully  sent  her  the  following  verses, 
printed  by  himself,  apd  enclosed  in  a  billet,  that  alludes  to  the  occa- 
fi^a  on  which  they  were  composed — a  very  unseasonaljle  flood,  that 
ii)terrupted  the  communication  between  Clifton  and  Qln^y. 

To  watch  the  storms,  and  hear  the  sky 
Give  all  cur  Almanacks  the  lie  ; 
To  shake  with  cold,  and  see  the  plains 
In  Autumn  drown 'd  with  Wintry  I'ains  ; 
'Tis  thus  I  spend  my  moments  here. 
And  wish  myself  a  Dutch  Mynheer ; 
I  then  should  have  no  need  of  wit 
For  lumpish  Hollander  unfit ! 
Nor  should  I  then  repine  at  mud, 
Or  meadows  delug'd  by  a  flood ; 
But  in  a  bog  live  well  content, 
And  find  it  just  my  element ; 
Should  be  a  clod,  and  not  a  man, 
Nor  wish  in  vain  for  Sister  Ann, 
With  charitable  aid  to  drag 
My  mind  out  of  its  proper  quag; 
Should  have  the  genius  of  a  boor, 
And  no  ambition  to  have  more. 

My  dear  Sister, 

You  see  my  beginning — I  do  not  know 
but  in  time  I  may  proceed  even  to  the  printing  of  halfpenny  Bal. 
lads — Excuse  the  coarseness  of  my  paper — I  wasted  such  a  quan- 
tity before  I  could  accomplish  any  thing  legiljlc,  that  I  could  not 
afford  finer.  I  intend  to  employ  an  ingenious  mechanic  of  the 
town  to  make  me  a  longer  case :  for  you  may  oljscrve,  that  my  lines 
turn  up  their  tai:s  like  Dutch  mastifl's,  so  difficult  do  I  find  it  to 
make  the  two  halves  exactly  coincide  with  each  other. 


*r2  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

We  wait  with  impatience  for  the  departure  of  this  unseasonable 
flood — ^We  think  of  you,  and  talk  of  you,  but  we  can  do  no  n\ore, 
till  the  waters  shall  subside.  I  do  not  think  our  correspondence 
should  drop  because  we  are  within  a  mile  of  each  other.  It  is  but 
an  imaginary  approximation,  the  flood  having  in  reality  as  effectu- 
ally parted  us,  as  if  the  British  Channel  rolled  between  us. 

Yours,  my  dear  Sister,  with  Mrs.  Unwin's  best  love. 

Wm.  COWPER. 
August  12,  1782. 


A  flood  that  precluded  him  from  the  conversation  of  such  an 
enlivening  friend  was  to  Co^vper  a  serious  evil ;  but  he  was  hap- 
pily relieved  from  the  apprehension  of  such  disappointment  in  fu- 
ture, by  seeing  the  friend  so  pleasing  and  so  useful  to  him  very 
comfortably  settled  as  his  next  door  neighbour. 

Lady  Austen  became  a  tenant  of  the  Parsonage  in  Olney;  when 
Mr.  Newton  occupied  that  Parsonage  he  had  opened  a  door  in  the 
garden  wall  that  admitted  him,  in  the  most  commodious  manner, 
to  visit  the  sequestered  Poet,  who  resided  in  the  next  house. 
Lady  Austen  had  the  advantage  of  this  easy  intercourse,  and  so 
captivating  was  her  society,  both  to  Cowper  and  to  Mrs.  Unwin, 
that  these  intimate  neighbours  might  be  almost  said  to  make  one 
family,  as  it  became  their  custom  to  dine  always  together,  alter- 
nately, in  the  houses  of  the  two  ladies. 

The  musical  talents  of  Lady  Austen  induced  Cowper  to  write  a 
few  songs  of  peculiar  sweetness  and  pathos,  to  suit  particular  airs 
that  she  was  accustomed  to  play  on  the  Harpsichord.  I  insert  three 
of  these  as  proofs,  that  even  in  his  hours  of  social  amusement,  the 
Poet  loved  to  dwell  on  ideas  of  tender  devotion  and  pathetic  so- 
lemnity. 

SONG 
IVrlttcn  in  the  Sunwier  of  1783,  at  the  recfiest  of  Lady  Austen, 

Air — "  My  fond  Shepherds  of  late,"  8cc. 

No  longer  I  follow  a  sound; 
No  longer  a  dream  I  pursue : 

0  Happiness,  not  to  be  found, 
Unattainable  treasure,  adieu !  <' 

1  have  sought  thee  in  splendour  and  dress ; 
In  the  regions  of  pleasure  and  taste  : 

I  have  sought  thee,  and  seem'd  to  possess, 
But  have  prov'd  thee  a  vision  at  last. 


LIFE  OF  COWPEFvi  7% 


An  humble  ambition  and  liope 

Tlie  v;Mce  of  ti-ue  wisdom  inspires; 

'Tis  sufficient  if  Peace  be  the  scope, 
And  the  summit  of  ail  ouj'  desires. 

Peace  may  be  the  lot  of  the  mind, 

That  seeks  it  in  meekness  and  love ; 
But  rapture  and  bliss  are  confin'd 
To  the  glorified  Spirits  above. 


SONG  2i 
Air—"  The  Lass  of  Pattie's  Mill." 

When  all  within  is  peace, 

How  Nature  seems  to  smile  ! 
Delights  that  never  cease, 

The  livelong  day  beguile. 
From  morn  to  dewy  eve. 

With  open  hand  she  showers 
Fresh  blessings,  to  deceive 

And  soothe  the  silent  hours. 

It  is  content  of  heart 

•    Gives  Nature  power  to  please; 

The  mind  that  feels  no  smart 

Enlivens  all  it  sees ; 
Can  make  a  wint'ry  sky 

Seem  bright  as  smiling  May, 
And  evening's  closing  eye 

As  peep  of  early  day. 

Tlie  vast  majestic  globe. 

So  bcauteously  arrayed 
In  Nature's  various  robe. 

With  wond'rnus  skill  display'd, 
Is,  to  a  mourner's  heart, 

A  dreary  wild  at  best : 
It  flutters  to  depart. 

And  longs  to  be  at  rest. 


I  add  the  following  Song  (adapted  to  tlie  March  in  Scipio)  for 
two  reasons;  because  it  is  pleasing  to  promote  the  celebrity  of  a 

VOL.  I.  I. 


74  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

brave  man,  calamitously  cut  off  in  his  career  of  honour,  and  be- 
cause the  Song  was  a  favourite  production  of  the  Poet's ;  so  much 
so,  that,  in  a  season  of  depressive  illness,  he  amused  himself  by 
translating  it  iiito  Latin  verse. 

SONG  3. 

On  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George. 

Toll  for  the  brave  ! 
The  brave !  that  are  no  more  I 

All  sunk  beneath  the  wave, 
Fast  by  their  native  shore. 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave, 

Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 
Had  made  the  vessel  heel, 
*  And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shroudsj 

And  she  was  overset ; 
Down  went  the  Royal  George, 

With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave ! 
Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone: 

His  last  sea-fight  is  fought; 
His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle ; 

No  tempest  gave  the  sliock  t 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak ; 

She  ran  upon  no  rork. 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath, 

His  fingers  held  the  pen. 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down, 

With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up, 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes'. 
And  mingle  with  our  cup 

The  tear,  that  England  owes. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  75 

^lei'  timbei's  yet  are  sound, 

And  she  may  float  again, 
Full  cliarg'd  with  England's  thunder, 

And  plough  the  distant  main. 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone, 

His  victories  are  o'er  ^ 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 

Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more,. 


Let  the  reader  who  wishes  to  impress  on  his  mind  a  just  idea  of 
the  variety  and  extent  of  Cowper's  poetical  powers,  contrast  this 
heroic  Ballad,  of  exquisite  pathos,  with  his  divei'ting  history  of 
John  Gilpin ! 

That  admirable  and  highly  popular  piece  of  pleasantry  was 
composed  at  the  period  of  which  I  am  now  speaking  (1783).     An 
elegant  and  judicious  writer,  who  has  recently  favoured  the  public 
■with  three  interesting  volumes  relating  to  the  early  poets  of  our 
country,  conjectures,  that  a  poem,  written  by  the  celebrated  Sir 
Thomas  More  in  his  youth,  (the  merry  jest  of  the  Sergeant  and 
Frere),  may  have  suggested  to  Cowper  his  tale  of  John  Gilpin : 
but  that  fascinating  Ballad  had  a  different  origin ;  and  it  is  a  very 
remarkable  fact,  that,  full  of  gaiety  and  humour,  as  this  favourite 
of  the  public  has  abundantly  pro^■ed  itself  to  be,  it  was  really  com- 
posed at  a  time  when  the  spirit  of  the  Poet,  as  he  informed  me 
himself,  was  very  deeply  tinged  with  his  depressive  malady.     It 
happened  one  afternoon,  in  those  years  when  his  accomplished 
friend,  Lady  Austen,  made  a  part  of  his  little  evening  circle,  that 
she  observed  him  sinking  into  increasing  dejection:  it  was  her  cus- 
tom, on  these  occasions,  to  try  all  the  resources  of  her  sprightly 
powers  for  his  immediate  relief.     She  told  him  the  story  of  John 
Gilpin  (which  had  been  treasured  in  her  memory  from  Iier  child- 
hood) to  dissipate  the  gloom  of  the  passing  hour.     Its  effect  en  the 
fancy  of  CoAvper  had  the  air  of  enchantment :  he  informed  her 
the  next  morning,  tliat  convulsions  of  laughter,  brought  on  by  iiis 
recollection  of  her  story,  had  kept  him  waking  duiing  the  greatest 
part  of  the  night,  and  that  he  had  turned  it  into  a  Ballad.    So  arose 
the  pleasant  Poem  of  John  Gilpin.    It  was  eagerly  copied,  and  find- 
ing its  way  rapidly  to  the  newspapers,  it  was  seized  by  tlie  li\  ely 
spirit  of  Henderson,  the  Comedian,  a  native  of  Newjjort-Pagnell, 
and  a  man,  like  the  Yorick  described  by  Shakspeare,  "  of  infinite 
jest,  and  most  excellent  fancy ;"  it  was  seized  by  Henderson  as  a 
})roper  subject  for  the  display  of  his  own  comic  powers  j  uijd  by  re^ 


y$  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

citing  it  in  his  public  readings,  he  gave  uncommon  celebrity  to  the 
Ballad,  before  the  public  suspected  to  what  Poet  they  were  indebted 
for  the  sudden  burst  of  ludicrous  amusement.  Many  readers  were 
astonished  when  the  Poem  made  its  first  authentic  appearance  in 
the  second  volume  of  Cowper.  In  some  letters  of  the  Poet  to  Mr. 
Hill,  which  did  not  reach  me  till  my  work  was  nearly  finished,  I 
find  an  account  of  John  Gilpin's  first  introduction  to  the  world, 
and  a  circumstance  relating  to  the  first  volume  of  Cowper's  Poems, 
which  may  render  the  following  selection  from  this  correspondence 
peculiarly  interesting. 

LETTER  XXXn. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esq. 

Feb.lSiSf  20,  1783. 
My  dear  Friend, 

In  writing  to  you  I  never  want  a  subject. 
Self  is  always  at  hand,  and  Self,  with  its  conceras,  is  always  inter- 
esting to  a  friend. 

You  may  think,  perhaps,  that  having  commenced  Poet  by  pro- 
fession, I  am  always  writing  verses.  Not  so — I  have  written 
nothing,  at  least  finished  nothing,  since  I  published — except  a  cer- 
tain facetious  history  of  John  Gilpin,  which  Mr.  Unwin  would 
send  to  the  Public  Advertiser ;  perhaps  you  might  read  it  without 
suspecting  the  Author. 

My  Book  procures  me  favours,  which  my  modesty  will  not  per- 
mit me  to  specify,  except  one,  which,  modest  as  I  am,  I  cannot 
suppress,  a  very  handsome  Letter  from  Dr.  Franklin,  at  Passy — . 
These  fruits  it  has  bi'ought  me. 

I  have  been  refreshing  myself  with  a  walk  in  the  garden,  where 
I  find  that  January  (who,  according  to  Chaucer,  was  the  husbantl 
«f  May)  being  dead,  February  has  married  the  widow. 

Yours,  See.  W.  C. 


LETTER  XXXin. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,   Esq. 

0/ney,  Feb.  20,  17S5, 
Suspecting  that  I  should  not  have  hinted  at  Dr. 
Franklin's  encomium  under  any  other  influence  than  that  of  vanity, 
I  was  several  times  on  the  point  of  burning  my  letter  for  that  very 
reason.  But  not  having  time  to  write  another  I)y  the  same  post', 
and  believing  that  you  would  have  the  grace  to  pardon  a  little  seli- 
complaccncy  in  an  Author  on  so  trying  an  occasion,  I  let  it  pass, 
pne  sill  naturall)-  leads  to  another  and  a  greater,  and  tlius  it  haj..' 


LIFE  OF  CO\V?EK.  f? 

pens  now:  for  I  have  no  way  to  gratify  your  curiosity,  but  by 
transcribing  the  letter  in  question.  It  is  addressed,  by  the  way, 
not  to  me,  but  to  an  acquaintance  of  mine,  who  had  transmitted 
the  vohime  to  liim  without  my  knowledge. 

"Sir,  Passij,  May  8,  1^82. 

I  received  the  letter  yen  did  me  the  honour  of 
■writing  to  me,  and  am  much  obliged  by  your  kind  present  of  a 
book.  The  relish  for  reading  of  Poetry  had  long  since  left  me ; 
but  there  is  something  so  new  in  the  manner,  so  easy  and  yet  so 
correct  in  the  language,  so  clear  in  the  expression,  yet  concise, 
and  so  just  in  the  sentiments,  that  I  have  read  the  whole  with 
great  pleasure,  and  some  of  the  pieces  more  than  once.  I  beg 
you  to  accept  my  thankful  acknowledgments,  and  to  present  my 
j-espects  to  the  author. 

Your  most  obedient,  humble  servant, 

B.  FRANKLIN.' 


LETTER  XXXIV. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,   Esq. 
Mv  DEAR  Friend, 

Great  revolutions  happen  in  this  Ant's 
nest  of  ours.  One  Emmet  of  illustrious  cliaracter  and  gi-eat  abi- 
lities pushes  out  another ;  parties  are  formed ;  they  range  them- 
selves in  formidable  opposition ;  they  threaten  each  other's  ruin ; 
they  cross  over,  and  are  mingled  together;  and,  like  the  corrus- 
cations  of  the  Northern  Aurora,  amuse  the  spectator,  at  the  same 
time  that,  by  some,  they  are  supposed  to  be  forerunners  of  a  general 
dissolution. 

There  are  political  earthquakes  as  well  as  natural  ones;  the 
former  less  shocking  to  the  eye,  but  not  always  less  fatal  in  their 
influence  than  the  latter.  The  image  which  Nebuchadnezzar  saw 
in  his  dream  was  made  up  of  heterogeneous  and  incompatible  ma- 
terials, and  accordingly  broken.  Whatever  is  so  formed  must 
expect  a  like  catastrophe. 

I  have  an  etching  of  the  late  Chancellor  hanging  over  the  par- 
lour chimney.  I  often  contemplate  it,  and  call  to  mind  the  day 
when  I  was  intimate  with  the  original.  It  is  very  like  him,  but  he 
is  disguised  by  his  hat,  which,  though  fashionable,  is  aukward;  by 
his  great  wig,  the  tie  of  which  is  hardly  discernable  in  profile;  and 
by  his  band  and  gown,  which  give  him  an  a])pearance  clumsily 
i-acerdotal.  Our  friendship  is  dead  and  Iniricd;  yours  is  the  oniy 
j^urviving  cue  of  all  with  which  I  was  cnce  honoured.   Adieu. 


78  LIFE  OF  COWPER, 


LETTER  XXXV. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esq. 

May  26,  1?'83. 
I  feel  for  my  uncle,  and  do  not  wonder 
that  his  loss  afflicts  him.  A  connection  that  has  subsisted  so  many 
years  could  not  be  rent  asunder  without  great  pain  to  the  survivor. 
I  hope,  however,  and  doubt  not  but  when  he  has  had  a  little  more 
time  for  recollection,  he  will  find  that  consolation  in  his  own  fa- 
mily which  is  not  the  lot  of  every  father  to  be  blessed  with.  It 
seldom  happens  that  married  persons  live  together  so  long  or  so 
happily :  but  this,  which  one  feels  onesel  f  ready  to  suggest  as  mat- 
ter of  alleviation,  is  the  very  circumstance  that  aggravates  his 
distress ;  therefore  he  misses  her  the  more,  and  feels  that  he  can 
but  ill  spare  her.  It  is,  however,  a  necessary  tax,  which  all  who 
live  long  must  pay  for  their  longevity,  to  lose  many  whom  they 
■Would  be  glad  to  detain  (perhaps  those  in  whom  all  their  happmess 
is  centered),  and  to  see  them  step  into  the  grave  before  them. 
In  one  respect  at  least  this  is  a  merciful  appointment.  When  life 
has  lost  that  to  which  it  owed  its  principal  relish,  we  may  our- 
selves the  more  cheerfully  resign  it.  I  beg  you  would  present  him 
with  my  most  affectionate  remembrarxe,  and  tell  him,  if  you 
think  fit,  how  much  I  wish  that  the  evening  of  his  long  day  may 
be  serene  and  happy. 


LETTER  XXXVI. 

To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esq. 

October  20, 1783. 
I  shovild  not  have  been  thus  long  silent, 
liad  I  known  with  certainty  where  a  letter  of  mine  might  find 
you.  Your  summer  excursions,  however,  are  now  at  an  end» 
iind  addressing  a  line  to  you  in  the  centre  of  the  busy  scene 
in  which  you  spend  your  winter,  I  am  pretty  sure  of  my  mark. 

I  see  the  winter  approaching  without  much  concern,  tliough  a 
passionate  lover  of  fine  weather,  and  the  pleasant  scenes  of  sum- 
mer; but  the  long  evenings  have  their  comforts  too,  and  there 
is  hardly  to  be  found  upon  the  earth,  I  suppose,  so  snug  a  crea- 
ture as  an  Englishman  by  his  fire-side  in  the  winter.  I  mean, 
however,  an  Englishman  that  lives  in  the  country,  for  in  London 
it  is  not  very  easy  to  avoid  intrusion.  I  have  two  ladies  to  read 
to — sometimes  more,  but  never  less.  At  present  we  are  circum- 
navigating the  globe,  and  I  find  the  old  story  with  v/hicli  I  amused 
myself  some  years  iiuce,  through  the  great  felicity  of  a  mcniioiT' 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  79 

not  very  retentive,  almost  new.  I  am,  however,  sadly  at  a  loss 
for  Cook's  Voyage :  Can  you  send  it  ?  I  shall  be  glad  of  Forster's 
too.  These  together  will  make  the  winter  pass  merrily,  and  you 
•will  much  oblige  me. 

The  last  letter  contains  a  slight  sketch  of  those  happy  winter 
evenings  which  the  Poet  has  painted  so  exquisitely  in  verse.  The 
two  ladies  whom  he  mentions  as  his  constant  auditors  were  Mrs. 
Unwin  and  Lady  Austen.  The  public,  already  indebted  to  the 
friendly  and  cheerful  spirit  of  the  latter  for  the  pleasant  Ballad  of 
John  Gilpin,  had  soon  to  thank  her  inspiring  benevolence  for  a 
•work  of  superior  dignity,  the  veiy  master-piece  of  Cowper's  un- 
bounded imagination ! 

This  lady  happened,  as  an  admirer  of  Milton,  to  be  partial  to 
blank  vei-se,  and  often  solicited  her  poetical  friend  to  try  his  powers 
in  that  species  of  composition.  After  repeated  solicitation,  he  pro- 
mised her,  if  she  would  furnish  the  subject,  to  comply  with  her 
request. — "O,"  she  replied,  "  you  can  never  be  in  want  of  a  sub- 
ject— you  can  write  upon  any — write  upon  this  sofa  !"  The  Poet 
obe3"ed  her  command,  and  from  tlie  lively  repartee  of  familiar 
conversation  arose  a  Poem  of  many  thousand  verses,  unexampled 
perhaps  both  in  its  origin  and  its  excellence !  A  Poem  of  such  in- 
finite variety,  that  it  seems  to  include  every  subject,  and  every 
style,  without  any  dissonance  or  disorder;  and  to  have  flowed, 
without  effort,  from  inspired  philanthropy,  eager  to  impress  upon 
the  hearts  of  all  readers  whatc\  er  may  lead  them  most  happilv  to 
the  full  enjoyment  of  human  life,  and  to  tlie  final  attainment  of 
Heaven. 

The  Task  appears  to  have  been  composed  in  the  winter  of  1784, 
A  cii'cumstance  the  more  remarkable,  as  v/inter  was,  in  general, 
particularly  unfavourable  to  the  health  of  the  Poet.  In  the  com- 
mencement of  the  Poem  he  marks  both  the  season  and  the  year, 
in  tiie  tender  address  to  his  companion. 

"  Whose  arm  this  twentieth  winter  I  perceive 
■"  Fast  lock'd  in  mine." 

If  such  can  be  the  proper  date  of  this  most  interesting  Poem, 
it  must  have  ijeen  written  with  inconceivable  rapidity,  for  it  was 
certainly  fuiislied  very  early  in  Novemlser.  This  appears  from 
the  following  passage  in  a  letter  of  the  Poet's  to  his  friend  Mr. 
Pull,  in  which  he  not  only  mentions  the  completion  of  his  great 
work,  but  gives  a  particular  account  of  his  next  production. 

"  The  Task,  as  you  know^  is  gone  to  the  press  :  since  it  went  I 


8(J  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

have  befen  elhployed  in  writing  another  Poem,  which  I  am  novf 
transcribing,  and  which,  in  a  slxort  time,  I  design  shall  follow.  It 
is  entitled  Tirocinium,  or  a  Review  of  Schools:  the  business  and 
purpose  of  it  are  to  censure  the  want  of  discipline,  arid  the  scan- 
dalous inattention  to  morals,  that  obtain  in  them ;  especially  in  the 
largest;  and  to  recommend  private  tuition  as  a  mode  of  educaticn 
preferable  on  all  accounts  j  to  call  upon  fathers  to  become  tutors 
of  their  own  sons,  where  that  is  practicable;  to  take  home  to 
them  a  domestfc  tutor,  where  it  is  not;  and  if  neither  can  be 
done,  to  place  tnem  under  the  care  of  such  a  man  as  he  to  whom 
I  am  writing;  some  rural  Parson,  whose  attention  is  limited  to  a 
few." 

The  date  of  this  letter  (Nov.  8,  1784),  and  the  information  it 
Contains,  induce  me  to  imagine  that  the  Task  was  really  begun 
before  the  winter  of  1784,  and  that  the  passage  which  I  have  citedy 
as  marking  the  sera  of  its  composition,  was  added  in  the  course  of 
a  revisal. 

The  following  passages  from  Cowper's  letters  to  his  last  men- 
tioiied  corr-espondent  confirm  this  conjecture. 

August  3,  1783 — "  Your  sea-side  situation,  your  beautiful  pros- 
pects, your  fine  rides,  and  the  sight  of  the  palaces,  which  you 
have  seen,  we  have  not  envied  you;  but  are  glad  that  you 'have 
enjoyed  them.  Why  sliould  we  envy  any  man  ?  Is  not  our  green- 
house a  cabinet  of  perfumes  ?  It  is  at  this  moment  fronted  with 
carnations  and  balsams,  with  mignonette  and  roses,  with  jessamine 
and  woodbine,  and  wants  nothing  but  your  pipe  to  make  it  truly 
Arabian; — a  wilderness  of  sweets!  The  Sofa  is  ended,  but  not 
finished;  a  paradox  v/hich  your  natural  acumen,  sharpened  by  ha- 
bits of  logical  attention,  v/ill  enable  you  to  reconcile  in  a  moment. 
Do  not  imagine,  however,  that  I  lounge  over  it— on  the  contrary,  I 
find  it  severe  exercise  to  mould  and  fashion  it  to  my  mind!" 

Ftbfuarij  22,  1784 — "  I  congratulate  you  on  the  thaw — I  sup- 
pose it  is  an  universal  blessing,  and  probably  felt  all  over  Europe. 
I  myself  am  the  better  for  it,  who  wanted  nothing  that  might  make 
the  frost  supportable :  what  reason,  therefore,  ha^•e  they  to  rejoice 
who,  being  in  want  of  all  things,  Avere  exposed  to  its  utmost  ri- 
gour?— "^he  ice  in  my  ink,  however,  is  not  yet  dissolved — It  was 
ioil?  bc.'bre  the  frost  seized  it,  but  at  last  it  prevailed — The  Sofa 
has  consequently  received  little  or  no  addition  since — It  consists  at 
present  of  four  Books,  and  part  of  a  fifth:  when  the  sixth  is 
finished,  the  Avork  is  accomplished;  but  if  I  may  judge  by  my  pre- 
sent inability,,  that  period  is  at  a  considerable  distance." 

The  year  17S4  vv'as  a  memorable  period  in  the  life  of  the  Poet, 
not  onl)-  as  it  witnessed  the  completicn  of  cue  e^iteiisive  worky 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  8% 

and  the  commencement  of  another,  (his  Translation  of  Homer) 
but  as  it  terminated  his  intercourr-e  with  that  highly  pleasing  and 
valuable  friend  whose  alacrity  of  attention  and  advice  had  induced 
him  to  engage  in  both. 

Delightful  and  advantageous  as  his  friendship  with  Lady  Austen 
had  proved,  he  now  began  to  feel  that  it  grew  impossible  to  pre- 
serve that  triple  cord,  which  his  own  pure  heart  had  led  him  to 
suppose  not  speedily  to  be  broken.  Mrs.  Unwin,  though  by  no 
means  destitute  of  mental  accomplishments,  was  eclipsed  by  the 
brilliancy  of  the  Poet's  new  friend,  and  naturally  became  uueasy 
under  the  apprehension  cyf  being  so ;  for,  to  a  woman  of  sensibility, 
what  evil  cm  be  more  afflicting  than  the  fear  of  losing  all  mental 
influence  over  a  man  of  genius  and  virtue  whom  she  has  been  long 
accustomed  to  inspirit  and  to  guide? 

Cowjier  perceived  the  pdnftil  necessity  of  sacrificing  a  great 
portioa  of  his  present  gratifications.  He  felt  that  he  must  relin- 
quish that  ancient  friend,  whom  he  regarded  as  a  venerable  parent, 
or  the  new  associate,  whom  he  idolized  as  a  sister  of  a  heart  and 
mind  peculiarly  congenial  to  his  own.  His  gratitude  for  past  ser- 
vices of  unexampled  magnitude  and  weight  would  not  allow  liim  to 
hesitate,  and,  with  a  resolution  and  delicacy  that  do  the  highest 
honour  to  his  feelings,  he  wrote  a  farewell  letter  to  Lady  Austen, 
explaining  and  lamenting  the  circumstances  that  forced  him  to  re- 
tounce  the  society  of  a  friend,  whose  enchanting  talents  and  kind- 
ness had  proved  so  agreeably  instrumental  to  the  revival  of  his 
spirits,  and  to  the  exercise  of  his  fancy. 

The  letters  addressed  to  Mr.  Hill  at  this  period  express,  in  a 
jjmost  pleasing  manner,  the  sensibility  of  Cowpei> 

LETTER  XXXVIL 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esquire. 
My  dear  Friend,  Se/it.U,  1784. 

I  have  never  seen  Dr.  Cotton's  book,  con- 
cerning which  your  sisters  question  me ;  nor  did  I  know,  'till  you 
mentioned  it,  that  he  had  written  any  thing  newer  than  his  Visions: 
I  have  no  doubt  that  it  is  so  far  worthy  of  him  as  to  be  pious  and 
sensible,  and  I  believe  no  man  li\  ing  is  better  qualified  to  write  on 
such  subjects  as  his  title  seems  to  announce.  Some  years  have 
passed  since  I  heard  from  him,  and,  considering  his  great  age,  it  is 
probable  that  I  shall  hear  from  him  no  more ;  but  I  shall  alwa^'s 
respect  him.  He  is  truly  a  philosopher,  according  to  my  judg- 
ment of  the  character;  every  tittle  of  his  knowledge  in  natural 
subjects  being  connected,  in  his  mmd,  with  the  firm  belief  of  an^ 
Omnipotent  Agent.  Yours,  &c.  W.  C. 

VOL.  I.  H 


82  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 


LETTER  XXXVm. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esquire. 

My  dear  Friend, 

To  condole  with  you  on  the  death  of  a 
mother  aged  eighty-seven  would  be  absurd — Rather,  therefore,  as 
is  reasonable,  I  congratulate  you  on  the  almost  singular  felicity  of 
having  enjoyed  the  company  of  so  amiable  and  so  near  a  relation 
so  long.  Your  lot  and  mine,  in  this  respect,  have  been  very  differ- 
ent, as,  indeed,  in  almost  every  other.  Your  mother  lived  to  see 
you  rise,  at  least  to  see  you  comfortably  established  in  the  world. 
Mine  dying  when  I  was  six  years  old,  did  not  live  to  see  me  sink 
in  it.  You  may  remember,  with  pleasure,  while  you  live,  a  bless- 
ing vouchsafed  to  you  so  long,  and  I,  while  I  live,  must  regret  a 
comfort  of  which  I  was  deprived  so  early.  I  can  truly  say  that  not 
a  week  passes,  (perhaps  I  might  with  equal  veracity  say  a  day)  in 
which  I  do  not  tliink  of  her.  Such  was  the  impression  her  tender- 
ness made  upon  me,  though  the  opportunity  she  had  for  showing 
it  was  so  short.  But  the  ways  of  God  are  equal — and  when  I  re- 
flect on  the  pangs  she  would  have  suffered  had  she  been  a  witness 
of  all  mine,  I  see  more  cause  to  rejoice  than  to  mourn  that  she 
was  hidden  in  the  grave  so  soon. 

We  have,  as  you  say,  lost  a  lively  and  sensible  neighbour  in 
Lady  Austen ;  but  we  have  been  long  accustomed  to  a  state  of  re- 
tirement, within  one  degree  of  solitude,  and  being  naturally  lovers>' 
of  still  life,  can  relapse  into  our  former  duality  without  being  un- 
happy at  the  change.  To  me,  indeed,  a  third  Is  not  necessary, 
while  I  can  have  the  companion  I  have  had  these  twenty  years. 

I  am  gone  to  the  press  again ;  a  volume  of  mine  will  greet  your- 
hands  some  time  either  in  the  course  of  the  winter  or  early  in  the 
spring.  You  will  find  it,  perhaps,  on  the  whole,  more  entertaining 
than  the  former,  as  it  treats  of  a  greater  variety  of  subjects,  and- 
those,  at  least  the  most,  of  a  sublunary  kind.  It  will  consist  of  a 
Poem  in  six  books,  called  the  Task.  To  which  will  be  added  an- 
other, which  I  finished  yesterday,  called,  I  believe,  Tirocinium,  on 
the  subject  of  Education. 

You  perceive  that  I  have  taken  your  advice,  and  given  tJie  pen, 
iao  rest. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  83 

LETTER  XXXIX. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esquire. 

June  25,  IJ'85. 
My  dear  Friend, 

I  write  in  a  nook  that  I  call  my  Boudoir, 
It  is  a  summer-house  not  much  bigger  than  a  sedan-chair,  the  door 
of  which  opens  into  the  garden  that  is  now  crowded  with  pinks, 
roses  and  honey-suckles,  and  the  window  into  my  neighbour's 
orchard.  It  formeily  served  an  apothecary,  now  dead,  as  a  smok'. 
ing-room,  and  under  my  feet  is  a  trap-door,  which  once  covered  a 
hole  in  the  ground,  where  he  kept  his  bottles.  At  present,  how- 
ever, it  is  dedicated  to  sublimer  uses.  Having  lined  it  with  garden 
mats,  and  furnished  it  with  a  table  and  two  chairs,  here  I  write  all 
that  I  write  in  summer  time,  whether  to  my  friends,  or  to  the 
public.  It  is  secure  from  all  noise,  and  a  refuge  from  all  intrusion; 
for  intruders  sometimes  trouble  me  in  the  winter  cA^enings  at  Olney. 
But  thanks  to  my  Boudoir^  I  can  now  hide  myself  from  them.  A 
Poet's  retreat  is  sacred:  they  acknowledge  the  truth  of  that  pro- 
position, and  never  presume  to  violate  it. 

The  last  sentence  puts  me  in  mind  to  tell  you,  that  I  have  ordered 
Yny  volume  to  your  door.  My  bookseller  is  the  most  dilatory  of  aU 
his  fraternity,  or  you  would  have  received  it  long  since :  it  is  more 
than  a  month  since  I  returned  him  the  last  proof,  and  consequently 
since  the  printing  was  finished.  I  sent  him  the  manuscript  at  the 
beginning  of  last  November,  that  he  might  publish  while  the  town 
is  full,  and  he  wilj  hit  the  exact  moment  when  it  is  entirely  empty. 
Patience  you  will  perceive  is  in  no  situation  exempted  from  the 
severest  trials ;  a  remark  that  raay  serve  to  comfort  you  under  the 
fiumberles^  trials  of  your  own. 

W,  C. 


His  second  volume,  of  whose  delay  in  the  press  he  speaks  so 
feelingly,  was  published  in  the  summer  of  1785.  It  not  only 
raised  him  to  the  summit  of  poetical  reputation,  but  obtained  for 
him  a  blessing  infinitely  dearer  to  his  affectionate  heart,  another 
female  friend,  and  lively  associate,  now  providentially  led  to  con- 
tribute to  his  comfort,  when  the  advanced  age  and  infirmities  of 
Mrs.  Unwin  made  such  an  acquisition  of  new,  or  rather  revived 
friendship,  a  matter  of  infinite  importance  to  the  tranquility  and 
welfare  of  the  sequestered  Poet. 

The  Lady  to  whom  I  allude  had  the  advantage  of  being  nearly 
related  to  Cowper.    Their  intercourse  had  been  frequent,  an4 


«#  LiM  ot"  cbwpfik. 

endeared  by  reciprocal  esteem  in  their  early  years ;  but  the  whifT- 
•winds  of  life  had  driven  them  far  from  the  sight  of  each  other. 
During  the  Poet's  ?ong  retirement  his  fair  cousin  had  passed  some 
years  with  her  husband  abroad,  and  others,  after  her  return,  in-a 
variety  of  mournful  duties.  She  was  at  this  time  a  widow,  alKi  her 
indelible  regard  for  her  poetical  relation,  being  agreeably  inspirited 
by  the  publication  of  his  recent  works,  she  wtote  to  him,  on  that 
occasion,  a  very  kind  letter. 

It  gave  rise  to  many  from  him,  which  T  am  particularly  happy* 
in  being  enabled  to  make  a  part  of  this  work,  because  they  give  a 
minute  account  of  their  admirable  author,  at  a  very  interesting 
period  of  his  life ;  and  because  I  persuade  myself  they  will  reflect 
peculiar  honour  on  my  departed  friend  in  various  points  of  view, 
and  lead  the  public  to  join  with  me  in  thinkmg  that  his  letters  ai-e 
rivals  to  his  Poems,  in  the  rare  excellence  of  representing  life  ani 
fiature  with  graceful  and  endearing  fideUty. 

LETTER  XL. 
To  Lady  HESKETH,  New  Norfolk  Street,  Grosvenor-Square* 

October  12,  J785w 
Mv  DEAR  Cousin-, 

It  is  no  new  thing  with  j'^ou  to  give  plea- 
sure, but  I  will  venture  to  say  that  you  do  not  often  give  more  than 
you  gave  me  this  morning.  When  I  came  down  to  breakfast,  and 
found  upon  the  table  a  letter  franked  by  my  uncle,  and  when  open- 
ing that  frank  I  found  that  it  contained  a  letter  from  you,  I  sard 
within  myself,  this  is  jdft  as  it  should  be ;  we  are  all  grown  young 
again,  and  the  days  that  I  thought  I  should  see  no  more,  are  ac- 
tually returned.  You  perceive  therefore  that  you  judged  well 
when  you  conjectured  that  a  line  from  you  would  not  be  disagree- 

■  able  tome.  It  could  not  be  otherwise  than,  as  in  fact  it  proved,  a 
most  agreeable  surprize,  for  I  can  truly  boast  of  an  affection  for  you 

.'  that  neither  years  nor  interrupted  intercourse  have  at  all  abated. 
•."IfneCd  only  recollect  how  much  I  valued  you  once,  and  with  how 
■"  Inuch  caifce,  immediately  to  feel  a  revi\'al  of  the  same  value ;  if  that 

■  tan  be  said  to  revive,  which  at  the  most  has  only  been  dormapt  for 
\vafiftSf  Employment.     But  I  slander  it  when  I  say  that  Jt  has  slept. 

'  A  thousand  times  have  I  recollected  a  thousand  scenes  in  which  our 
two  selves  have  formed  the  whole  of  the  drama,  with  the  greatest 
pleasure ;  at  times  too  when  I  had  no  reason  to  suppose  that  I 

'  should  ever  hear  from  you  again.     I  have  laughed  with  you  at  the 

■  Arabian  Nights  Entertainment,  which  aflForded  us,  as  you  well 
know,  a  fund  of  merriment  that  deserves  never  to  be  forgot.  I 
Jrtave  walked  with  you  to  Ncttley  Abbey,  and  have  scrambled  with 


LIFE  OF  COWTER.  W 

you  ovei'  hedges  in  every  direction,  and  many  other  feats  we  have 
performed  together,  upon  the  iield  of  my  remembrance,  and  all 
within  these  few  years,  should  I  say  within  this  twelvemonth  I 
should  not  transgress  the  truth.  The  hours  thiit  I  have  spent  with 
you  were  among  the  pleasantest  of  my  former  days,  and  are  there- 
fore chronicled  in  my  mind  so  deeply  as  to  fear  no  erasure.  Nei- 
ther do  I  forget  my  poor  friend  Sir  Thomas :  I  should  remember  him 
indeed  at  any  rate  on  account  of  his  personal  kindnesses  to  myself, 
but  the  last  testimony  that  he  gave  of  his  regard  for  you,  endears 
Jiim  to  me  still  more.  With  his  uncommon  understanding  (for 
-with  many  peculiarities  he  had  more  sense  than  any  of  his  acquaint- 
ance) and  with  his  generous  sensibilities,  it  was  hardly  possible  that 
he  should  not  distinguish  you  as  he  has  done:  as  it  was  the  last,  sp 
it  was  the  best  proof  that  he  could  give  of  a  judgment  that  never 
deceived  him,  when  he  would  allow  himself  leisure  to  consult  it. 

You  say  that  you  have  often  heard  of  me:  that  puzzles  me.  I 
cannot  imagine  from  what  quarter ;  but  it  is  no  matter.  I  must  tell 
you,  however,  my  Cousin,  that  your  information  has  been  a  little 
defective.  That  I  am  happy  in  my  situation  is  true:  I  live  and 
have  lived  these  twenty  years  with  Mrs.  Unwin,  to  whose  affec- 
tionate care  of  me  during  the  far  greater  part  of  that  time,  it  is, 
under  Providence,  owing  that  I  live  at  all.  But  I  do  not  account 
myself  happy  in  having  been  for  thirteen  of  those  years  in  a  state 
of  mind  that  has  made  all  that  care  and  attention  necessary  :  an 
attention  and  a  care  that  have  injured  her  health,  and  which, 
had  she  not  been  uncommonly  supported,  must  have  brought  her 
to  the  grave.  But  I  will  pass  to  another  subject;  it  would  be  cruel 
to  particularize  only  to  give  pain  ;  neither  would  I  by  any  means 
give  a  sable  hue  to  the  first  letter  of  a  correspondence  so  unex- 
pectedly renewed. 

I  am  delighted  with  what  you  tell  me  of  my  uncle's  good  health ; 
to  enjoy  any  measure  of  cheerfulness  at  so  late  a  day  is  much,  but 
to  have  that  late  day  enlivened  with  the  vivacity  of  youth,  is  much 
more,  and  in  these  postdiluvian  times  a  rarity  indeed.  Happy,  fojr 
the  most  part,  are  parents  who  have  daughters.  Daughters  are 
not  apt  to  outlive  their  natural  affections,  which  a  son  has  general'y 
survived  even  before  his  boyish  years  are  expired.  I  rejoice  parti- 
cularly in  my  uncle's  felicity,  who  has  three  female  descendants 
from  his  little  person,  who  leave  him  nothing  to  wish  for  upon  that 
head.- 

My  dear  Cousin,  dejection  of  spii-its,  which  I  suppose  may 
have  prevented  many  a  man  from  becoming  an  Author,  made  me 
■One.  1  find  constant  employment  necessary,  and  therefore  take 
care  to  be  coastautly  employed.    Manual  occupations  do  not  exit 


85  LIFE  OF  CO\^TER. 

gage  the  mind  sufficiently,  as  I  know  by  experience,  having  tried 
many:  but  composition,  especially  of  verse,  absorbs  it  wholly, 
I  write  therefore  generally  three  hours  in  a  morning,  and  in  an 
evening  I  transcribe.  I  read  also,  but  less  than  I  write,  for  I  must 
have  bodily  exercise,  and  therefore  never  pass  a  day  without  it. 

You  ask  me  where  I  have  been  this  summer.  I  answer  at 
Olney.  Should  you  ask  me  where  I  spent  the  last  seventeen  sum^ 
mers,  I  should  still  answer  at  Olney.  Ay,  and  the  winters  also, 
I  have  seldom  left  it,  and  except  when  I  attended  my  brother  in 
his  last  illness,  never  I  believe  a  fortnight  together. 

Adieu,  my  beloved  Cousin :  I  shall  not  always  be  thus  nimble  in 
reply,  but  shall  always  have  gi'eat  pleasure  in  answering  you  when 
I  can. 

Yours,  my  Friend  and  Cousin, 

Wm.  cowper. 


LETTER  XLI. 
To  Lady  HESKETH, 

Olney^  Mv.  9,  IfSo, 
My  dearest  Cousin, 

Whose  last  most  affectionate  letter  has 
fun  in  my  head  ever  since  I  received  it,  and  which  I  now  sit  do\vn 
lo  answer  two  days  sooner  than  the  post  will  serve  me.  I  thank 
you  for  it,  and  with  a  warmth  for  which  I  am  sure  you  will  give 
tne  credit,  though  I  do  not  spend  many  words  in  describing  it.  I  do 
Ji.ot  seek  nevj  fi'Jends,  not  being  altogether  sure  that  I  should  find 
them,  but  have  unspeakable  pleasure  in  being  still  beloved  by  an  old 
one.  I  hope  that  nov>^  our  correspondence  has  suifered  its  last  in- 
terruption, and  that  we  shall  go  down  together  to  the  grave  chat« 
ting  and  chirping  as  merrily  as  such  a  scene  of  things  as  this  will 
Jjermit. 

I  am  happy  that  my  Poems  have  pleased  you.  My  volume  has 
afforded  me  no  svich  pleasure  at  any  time,  either  while  I  was  writ- 
ing it,  or  since  its  publication,  as  I  have  derived  from  yours  and 
my  uncle's  opinion  of  it.  I  make  cei'tain  allowances  for  par- 
tiality, and  for  that  peculiar  quickness  of  taste  with  which  you 
both  relish  what  you  like,  and  after  all  draw-backs  upon  those 
accoimts  duly  made,  find- myself  rich  in  the  measure  of  your 
appi'obation  that  still  remains.  But  above  all  I  honour  John 
Gilpin,  since  it  was  he  who  first  encouraged  you  to  write.  I  made 
him  on  purpose  to  laugh  at,  and  he  served  his  purpose  well;  but 
I  am  now  in  debt  to  him  for  a  more  valua'ile  acquisition  than  all 
the  laughter  in  the  world  amounts  to,  the  recovery  of  my  intev- 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  SY 

course  with  you,  which  is  to  me  inestimable.  My  benevolent  and 
generous  Cousin,  when  I  was  once  asked  if  I  wanted  any  thing, 
and  given  delicately  enough  to  understand  that  the  enquirer  was 
ready  to  supply  all  my  occasions,  I  thankfully  and  civil)-,  but  posi- 
tively declined  the  favour.  I  neither  suffer,  nor  have  suifered  any 
such  inconveniences  as  I  had  not  much  rather  endure,  than  come 
under  obligations  of  that  sort  lo  a  person  comparatively  with  your- 
self a  stranger  to  me.  But  to  you  I  answer  otherwise.  I  know 
you  thoroughly,  and  the  liberality  of  your  disposition ;  and  have 
that  consummate  confidence  in  the  sincerity  of  your  wish  to  sei've 
me,  that  delivers  me  from  all  aukward  constraint,  and  from  all 
fear  of  trespassing  by  acceptance.  To  you,  therefore,  I  reply, 
yes;  whensoever,  and  whatsoever,  and  in  what  manner  soever  you 
please ;  and  add,  moreover,  that  my  aifection  for  the  giver  is  such 
as  will  increase  to  me  tenfold  the  satisfaction  that  I  shall  have  in- 
receiving.  It  is  necessary,  however,  that  I  should  let  you  a  little 
into  the  state  of  my  finances,  that  you  may  not  suppose  them  more 
narrowly  circumscribed  than  they  are.  Since  Mrs.  Unwin  and  I 
have  lived  at  Olney,  we  have  had  but  one  purse  ;  although,  during 
the  whole  of  that  time,  till  lately,  her  income  was  nearly  double 
mine.  Her  revenues,  indeed,  are  now  in  some  measiu'e  reduced, 
and  do  not  much  exceed  my  own :  the  worst  consequence  of  this 
is,  that  we  are  forced  to  deny  ourselves  some  things  which  hitherto 
we  have  been  better  alile  to  afford ;  but  they  are  sucli  things  as 
neither  life  nor  the  well-being  of  life  depend  upon.  My  own  in- 
come has  been  better  than  it  is,  but  when  it  was  best,  it  would 
not  have  enabled  me  to  live  as  my  connections  demanded  that  t 
should,  had  it  not  been  combined  with  a  better  than  itself,  at  least 
at  this  end  of  the  kingdom.  Of  this  I  had  full  proof  during  three 
months  that  I  spent  in  lodgings  at  Huntingdon,  in  which  time,  by 
the  help  of  good  management,  and  a  clear  notion  of  ceconomical 
matters,  I  contrived  to  spend  the  income  of  a  twelvemonth.  Now, 
my  beloved  Cousin,  you  are  in  possession  of  the  whole  case  as  it 
stands.  Strain  no  points  to  your  own  inconvenience  or  hurt,  for 
there  is  no  need  of  it ;  but  indulge  yourself  in  comm.unicating  (no 
matter  what)  that  you  can  spare  without  missing  it,  since  by  so 
doing  you  will  be  sui-e  to  add  to  the  comfoi'ts  of  my  life,  one  of  the 
sweetest  that  I  can  enjoy,  a  token  and  proof  of  yoiu-  affection. 

In  the  affairs  of  my  next  publication,  toward  which  you  also 
oflTer  me  so  kindly  your  assistance,  there  Avill  be  no  need  that  you 
should  help  me  in  the  manner  that  you  propose.  It  will  be  a  large 
woi-k,  consisting,  I  should  imagine,  of  six  volumes  at  least.  The 
twelfth  of  this  month  I  shall  have  spent  a  j-ear  upon  it,  and  it  will 
coit  me  more  than  another.    I  do  not  love  the  booksellers  v.-dl 


6§  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

enough  to  make  them  a  present  of  such  a  labour,  but  intend  to  pub- 
lish by  subscription^  Your  vote  and  interest,  my  dear  Cousin,  upon 
the  occasion,  if  you  please,  but  nothing  more!  I  will  trovible  you 
with  some  papers  of  proposals,  Avhen  the  time  shall  come,  and  am 
sure  that  you  will  circulate  as  many  for  me  as  you  can.  Now,  my 
dear,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  a  secret.  It  i:>  a  great  secret,  that  you 
must  not  whisjier  even  to  your  cat.  No  creature  is  at  this  moment 
appi'ised  of  it,  but  Mrs.  Unwin  and  her  Son.  I  am  making  a  new 
fi'anslation  of  Homer,  and  am  upon  the  point  of  finishing  the 
twenty -first  book  of  the  Iliad.  The  reasons  upon  which  I  under- 
take this  Herculean  labour,  and  by  which  I  justify  an  enterprize 
in  which  I  ^eem  so  effectually  anticipaled  by  Pope,  although,  in  fact, 
he  has  not  anticipated  me  at  all,  I  may  possibly  give  you,  if  you 
wish  for  them,  when  I  can  find  nothing  more  interesting  to  say ;  a 
period  which  I  do  not  conceive  to  be  very  near !  I  have  not  an- 
swered many  things  in  your  letter,  nor  can  do  it  at  present  for 
want  of  room.  I  cannot  believe  but  that  I  should  know  you,  not- 
withstanding all  that  time  may  have  done.  There  is  not  a  feature 
of  your  face,  could  I  meet  it  upon  the  road  by  itself,  that  I  should 
not  instantly  recollect.  I  should  say,  that  is  my  Cousin's  nose,  or 
those  are  her  lips  and  her  chin,  and  no  woman  upon  earth  can  claim 
them  but  herself.  As  for  me,  I  am  a  very  smart  youth  of  my 
years.  I  am  not  indeed  groAvn  grey  so  much  as  I  am  grown  bald. 
No  matter.  There  was  more  hair  in  the  woi-ld  than  ever  had  the 
honour  to  belong  to  me.  Accordingly,  having  found  just  enough 
to  curl  a  little  at  my  ears,  and  to  intermix  with  a  little  of  my  own 
that  still  hangs  behind,  I  appear,  if  you  see  me  in  an  afternoon,  to 
have  a  very  decent  head-dress,  not  easily  distinguished  from  my 
natural  growth;  which  being  worn  by  a  small  bag,  and  a  black 
riband  about  my  neck,  continues  to  me  the  charms  of  my  youth, 
*ven  on  the  verge  of  age.  Away  with  the  fear  of  writing  too 
<)ften.  Yours,  my  dearest  Cousin, 

W.  C. 
P.  S.  That  the  view  I  give  you  of  myself  may  be  complete,  I 
^dd  the  two  following  items — That  I  am  in  debt  to  nobody,  and 
that  I  grow  fat. 


LETTER  XLII, 

To  Lady  HESKETH. 
My  dearest  Cousin, 

I  am  glad  tliat  I  ahvays  loved  you  as  1 
did.  It  releases  me  from  any  occasion  to  suspect  that  my  present 
ftlTection  for  you  is  indebted  for  its  exif;teuce  to  any  selfish  consi- 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  "89 

derations.  No.  I  am  si^re  Hove  you  disinterestedly,  and  for  your 
own  sake,  because  I  never  thought  of  you  with  any  other  sensa- 
tions than  tliose  of  the  truest  aifection,  even  when  I  was  under  the 
influence  of  a  persuasion,  that  I  should  never  hear  from  you  again. 
.  But  with  my  present  feelings,  superadded  to  those  that  I  always 
had  for  you,  I  find  it  no  easy  matter  to  do  justice  to  my  sensations. 

^  I  perceive  myself  in  a  state  of  mind  similar  to  that  of  the  traveller, 

,  described  in  Pope's  Messiah,  who,  as  he  passes  through  a  sandy 
desart,  starts  at  the  sudden  and  unexpected  sound  of  a  waterfall. 
You  have  placed  me  in  a  situation  neW  to  me,  and  in  which  I  feel 
myself  somewhat  puzzled  how  I  ought  to  behave.  At  the  same 
time  that  I  would  not  grieve  you  by  putting  a  check  upon  your 
bounty,  I  would  be  as  careful  not  to  abuse  it,  as  if  I  were  a  miser, 
and  the  question  not  about  your  money  but  my  own. 

Although  I  do  not  suspect  that  a  secret  to  you,  my  cousin,  is 
any  burthen,  yet  having  maturely  considered  that  point  since  I 
wrote  my  last,  I  feel  myself  altogether  disposed  to  release  you  from 

'  the  injunction  to  that  eifect  under  which  I  laid  you.  I  have  now 
hiade  such  a  progress  in  my  translation,  that  I  need  neither  fear 
that  I  shall  stop  sliort  of  the  end,  nor  that  any  other  rider  of  Pe- 

*  gasus  should  overtake  me.  Therefore,  if  at  any  time  it  should  fall 
fairly  in  your  way,  or  you  should  feel  yourself  invited  to  say  that 
I  am  so  occupied,  you  have  my  Poetship's  free  permission.  Dr. 
Minson  read  and  recommended  my  first  volumci 

W.  C. 


LETTER  XLIIL 

To  JOSEPH  HILL,   Esquire. 

Dec,  24,  1785. 
Mv  DEAR  Friend, 

'Till  I  had  made  such  a  pi'ogress  in  my 
present  undertaking  as  to  put  it  out  of  all  doubt  that,  if  I  lived,  I 
should  pi-oceed  in  and  finish  it,  I  kept  the  matter  to  myself.  •  It 
would  have  done  me  little  honour  to  have  told  my  friends  that 
I  had  an  arduous  enterprize  in  hand,  if  afterwards  I  must  have  told 
them  that  I  had  dropped  it.  Knowing  it  to  have  been  universally 
the  opinion  of  tlie  literati,  ever  since  they  have  allowed  them- 
selves to  consider  the  matter  coolly,  that  a  translation,  properly  so 
called,  of  Homer,  is,  notwithstanding  wliat  Pope  has  done,  a  de- 
sideratum in  the  English  language,  it  struck  me  tliat  an  attempt 
to  supi)ly  the  deficiency  would  be  an  honourable  one ;  and  having 
made  myself,  in  former  years,  somewhat  critically  a  master  of  the 

VQI..  I.  N 


90  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

original,  I  was,  by  this  double  consideration,  induced  to  mak*  the 
attempt  myself.  I  am  now  translating  into  blank  verse  the  last 
book  of  the  Iliad,  and  mean  to  publish  by  subscription. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  XLIV. 
To  Lady  HESKETH 

Jan.  10,  1786. 
It  gave  me  great  pleasure  that  you  foiuid  my 
friend  Unwin,  Avhat  I  was  sure  you  would  find  him,  a  most  agree- 
able man.  I  did  not  usher  him  in  with  the  marrow-bones  and  clea- 
vers of  high-sounding  panegyric,  both  because  I.  was  certain 
that  whatsoever  merit  he  had,  your  discernment  would  mark  it, 
and  because  it  is  possible  to  do  a  man  material  injury,  by  making 
his  praise  his  harbinger.  It  is  easy  to  raise  expectation  to  such  a 
pitch  that  the  reality,  be  it  ever  so  excellent,  must  necessarily 
fall  below  it. 

I  hold  myself  much  indebted  to  Mr. ,  of  whom  I  have  the 

first  information  from  yourself,  both  for  his  friendly  dispositions 
towards  me,  and  for  the  manner  in  which  he  marks  the  defects  in 
my  volume.  An  author  must  be  tender  indeed,  to  wince  on  being 
touched  so  gently.  It  is  undoubtedly  as  he  sa}'s,  and  as  you  and 
my  uncle  say.  You  cannot  be  all  mistaken,  neither  is  it  at  all  pro- 
bable that  any  of  you  should  be  so.  I  take  it  for  granted,  there- 
fore, that  there  are  inequalities  in  the  composition  ;  and  I  do  assure 
you,  my  dear,  most  faithfully,  that  if  it  should  reach  a  second  edi- 
tion, I  will  spare  no  pains  to  improve  it.  It  may  serve  me  for  an 
agreeable  amusement,  perhaps,  when  Homer  shall  be  gone  and 
done  Avith.  The  first  edition  of  poems  has  generally  been  suscep- 
tible of  improvement.  Pope,  I  believe,  never  published  one  in 
his  life,  that  did  not  undergo  variations,  and  his  longest  pieces 
many.  I  will  only  observe,  that  inequalities  tliere  must  be  always, 
and  in  every  work  of  length.  There  are  level  parts  of  every  sub- 
ject, parts  v.'hich  we  cannot,  with  propriety,  attempt  to  elevate. 
They  are  by  nature  humble,  and  can  only  be  made  to  assume  an 
aukwavd  and  uncouth  appearance  by  being  mounted.  But  again, 
I  take  it  for  granted  that  this  remark  docs  not  apply  to  the  matter 
of  your  objection.  You  were  sufficiently  aware  of  it  before,  and 
have  no  need  that  I  should  suggest  it  as  an  apology,  could  it 
have  served  that  office,  but  would  ha^e  made  it  for  me  yourself. 
In  truth,  my  dear,  had  you  known  in  what  anguish  of  mind 
I  wrote  the  whole  of  that  poem,  and  under  what  perpetual  in- 
terruptions from  a  cause  that  has  since  been  removed,  so  that 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  91 

s'sometimes  I  liad  not  an  opportunity  of  writing  more  than  three 
lines  at  a  sitting,  you  would  long  since  have  wondered  as  much  as 
J  do  m)^self,  that  it  turned  out  any  thing  better  than  Grub-street. 

My  cousin,  give  yourself  no  trouble  to  find  out  any  of  the  Magi 
to  scnitinize  my  Homer.  I  can  do  without  them ;  and  if  I  were 
not  conscious  that  I  have  no  need  of  their  help,  I  would  be  the  first 
to  call  for  it.  Assure  yourself  that  I  intend  to  be  careful  to  the 
utmost  line  of  all  possible  caution,  both  with  respect  to  language 
and  versification.  I  will  not  send  a  verse  to  the  press,  that  shall 
not  have  undergone  the  strictest  examination. 

A  subscription  is  surely  on  every  account  the  most  eligible  mode 
of  publication.  When  I  shall  have  emptied  the  purses  of  my  friends 
and  of  their  friends  into  my  own,  I  am  still  free  to  levy  contribu- 
tions upon  the  world  at  large,  and  I  shall  then  have  a  fund  to  de- 
fray the  expenses  of  a  new  edition.  I  have  ordered  Johnson  to 
print  the  proposals  immediately,  and  hope  that  they  will  kiss  your 
hands  before  the  week  is  expired. 

I  have  had  the  kindest  letter  from  Josephus  that  I  ever  had.  He 
mentioned  my  purpose  to  one  of  the  masters  of  Eton,  who  replied, 
that  "  such  a  work  is  much  wanted." 

vv.  c. 


LETTER  XLV. 

To  Lady  HESKETH. 

Olneij.,  Jan,  31,  1786, 
It  is  very  pleasant,  my  dearest  cousin, 
to  receive  a  present  so  delicately  conveyed  as  that  which  I  re- 
ceived so  lately  from  Anonymous,  but  it  is  also  very  painful  to  have 
nobody  to  thank  for  it.  I  find  myself,  therefoi-e,  driven  by  stress 
of  necessity  to  the  following  resolution,  viz.  that  I  will  constitute 
you  my  Thank-receiver-general,  for  whatsoever  gift  I  shall  re- 
ceive hereafter,  as  well  as  for  those  that  I  have  already  received 
from  a  nameless  benefactor.  I  therefore  thank  you,  my  cousin, 
for  a  most  elegant  present,  including  the  most  elegant  compliment 
that  ever  Poet  was  honoured  with ;  for  a  snuff-box  of  tortoise-shell, 
with  a  beautiful  landscape  on  die  lid  of  it,  glazed  with  chrystal, 
having  the  figures  of  three  hares  in  the  foi^e-ground,  and  inscribed 
above  with  the  words.  The  Pheasant's  A''cst.,  and  below  with 
tlicse,  Tiney^  Puss,  and  Bess.  For  all,  and  every  of  these,  I 
thank  you,  and  also  for  standing  proxy  on  this  occasion.  Nor  must 
I  forget  to  thank  you,  that  so  soon  after  I  had  sent  you  the  first  let- 
ter of  Anonymous,  I  received  another  in  the  same  hand.  Tlierc-w 
now  I  am  a  little  easier. 


92  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

I  have  almost  conceived  a  design  to  send  up  half  a  dozen  stout 
coiintry-fellows,  to  tie  by  the  leg  to  their  respective  bed-posts,  the 
company  that  so  abridges  your  opportunity  of  writing  to  me.  Your 
letters  are  the  joy  of  my  heart,  and  I  cannot  endure  to  be  robbed 
by,  I  know  not  whom,  of  half  my  treasure.  But  there  is  no  com- 
fort without  a  drawback,  and  therefore  it  is  that  I,  who  have  un- 
known friends,  have  unknown  enemies  also.  Ever  since  I  wrote 
last,  I  find  myself  in  better  health,  and  my  nocturnal  spasms  and 
fever  considerably  abated.  I  intend  to  write  to  Dr.  Kerr  on  Thurs- 
day, that  I  may  gratify  him  with  an  account  of  my  amendment; 
for  to  him  I  know  that  it  will  be  a  gratification.  Were  he  not  a 
physician,  I  should  regi-et  that  he  lives  so  distant,  for  he  is  a  most 
agi'eeable  man ;  but  being  what  he  is,  it  would  be  ijnpossible  to 
have  his  company,  even  if  he  were  a  neighbour,  unless  in  time,  of 
sickness,  at  which  time,  whatever  charms  he  might  have  himself, 
my  own  must  necessarily  lose  much  of  their  effect  on  him. 

When  I  write  to  you,  my  dear,  what  I  have  already  related  to 
the  General,  I  am  always  fearful  least  I  should  tell  you  that  for 
news  with  which  you  are  well  acquainted.  For  once,  however,  I 
■will  venture.  On  Wednesday  last  I  received  from  Johnson  the  mar 
nuscript  copy  of  a  specimen  that  I  had  sent  to  the  General,  and  in- 
closed in  the  same  cover  notes  upon  it  by  an  unknown  critic. 
Johnson,  in  a  short  letter,  recommended  him  to  me  as  a  man  of 
unquestionable  learning  and  ability.  On  pei'usal  and  consideration 
of  his  remarks,  I  found  him  such,  and  having  nothing  so  much  at 
heart  as  to  give  all  possible  security  to  yourself  and  the  General, 
that  my  work  shall  not  come  forth  unfinished,  I  answered  John- 
son, "  that  I  would  gladly  submit  my  manuscript  to  his  friend. '^ 
He  is,  in  truth,  a  veiy  clever  fellow,  perfectly  a  stranger  to  me,  and 
one  who,  I  promise  you,  will  not  spare  for  severity  of  animad- 
version where  he  shall  find  occasion.  It  is  impossible  for  you,  my 
clearest  cousin,  to  express  a  Avish  that  I  do  not  equally  feel  a  wish 
to  gratify.  You  are  desirous  that  Maty  should  see  a  book  of  my 
Homer,  and  for  that  reason,  if  Maty  nvill  see  a  book  of  it,  he  shall 
be  welcome,  although  time  is  likely  to  be  precious ;  and,  conse- 
quently, any  delay  that  is  not  absolutely  necessary,  as  much  as  pos- 
sible, to  be  avoided.  I  am  now  revising  the  Iliad  ;  it  is  a  business 
that  will  cost  me  four  months,  perhaps  five,  for  T  compare  the  very 
"words  as  I  go,  and  if  much  alteration  should  occur,  must  tran- 
scribe the  whole.  The  first  book  I  have  almost  transcribed  al- 
ready. To  these  five  months,  Johnson  says  that  nine  more  must 
be  added  for  printing,  and,  upon  my  own  experience,  I  will  ven- 
ture to  assure  you,  that  the  tardiness  of  printers  v/ill  make  those 
nine  months  twelve.     There  is  danger,  therefore,  that  my  sub- 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  93 

scribei's  may  think  that  I  make  them  wait  too  long,  and  that  they 
•who  know  me  not  may  suspect  a  bubble.  How  glad  I  shall  be 
to  read  it  over  in  an  evening,  book  by  book,  as  fast  as  I  settle  the 
copy,  to  you,  and  to  Mrs.  Unwin  !  She  has  been  my  touchstone  al- 
ways, and  without  reference  to  her  taste  and  judgment,  I  lia\  e 
printed  uotliing.  With  one  of  you  at  each  elbow,  I  should  think 
myself  the  happiest  of  all  poets. 

The  General  and  I,  having  broken  the  ice,  are  upon  the  most 
comfortable  terms  of  correspondence.  He  writes  very  affection- 
ately to  me,  and  I  say  every  thing  to  him  that  comes  uppermost. 
I  could  not  write  frequently  to  any  creature  li\  ing  upon  any  other 
terms  than  those.  He  tells  me  of  infirmities  that  he  has,  which 
make  him  less  active  than  he  was.  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  he  has 
any  such.  Alas !  alas  !  he  was  young  when  I  saw  him  only  twenty 
years  ago. 

I  have  the  most  affectionate  letter  imaginable  from  Colman,  who 
writes  to  me  like  a  brother.     The  Chancellor  is  yet  dumb. 

May  God  have  you  in  his  keeping,  my  beloved  cousin.    Farewell. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  XLVL 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

Olmy^  Feb.  9,  irS6. 
My  dearest  Cousin, 

I  have  been  impatient  to  tell  you,  that  I 
am  impatient  to  see  you  again.  Mrs.  Unwin  partakes  with  me  in 
all  my  feelings  upon  this  subject,  and  longs  also  to  see  you.  I 
should  have  told  you  so  by  the  last  post,  but  have  been  so  com- 
pletely occupied  by  this  tormenting  specimen,  that  it  was  impos- 
sible to  do  it.  I  sent  the  General  a  letter  on  Monday,  that  would 
distress  and  alarm  him :  I  sent  him  another  yesterday,  that  will,  I 
hope,  quiet  him  again.  Johnson  has  apologized  very  civilly  for 
the  multitude  of  his  friend's  strictures,  and  his  friend  has  promised 
to  confine  himself  in  future  to  a  comparison  of  me  with  the  origi-. 
nal,  so  that  I  doubt  not  we  shall  jog  on  merrily  together.  And  now, 
my  dear,  let  me  tell  you  once  more,  that  your  kindness  in  promis- 
ing us  a  visit  has  charmed  us  both.  I  shall  see  you  again — I 
shall  hear  your  voice;  we  shall  take  walks  together;  I  will  show 
you  my  prospects,  the  hovel,  the  alcove,  the  Ousc  and  its  l)anks, 
every  thing  that  I  have  described.  I  anticipate  the  pleasure  of 
those  days  not  very  far  distant,  and  feel  a  part  of  it  at  tliis  mo- 
ment. Talk  not  of  an  inn,  mention  it  not  for  your  life.  W'c  have 
pever  had  so  many  visitors  but  we  could  easily  accommodate  theuj 


94  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

all,  though  we  have  received  Unwin,  and  his  wife,  and  his  sister, 
and  his  son,  all  at  once.  My  dear,  I  will  net  let  you  come  till  the 
end  of  Maj',  or  beginning  of  June,  because  before  that  time  my 
green-house  will  not  be  ready  to  receive  us,  and  it  is  the  only  plea- 
sant room  belonging  to  us.  When  the  plants  go  out,  we  go  in. 
I  line  it  with  mats,  and  spread  the  floor  with  mats,  and  there  you 
shall  sit  with  a  bed  of  mignonette  at  your  side,  and  a  hedge  of  ho- 
ney-suckles, roses,  and  jasmine ;  and  I  will  make  you  a  bouquet  of 
myrtle  every  day.  Sooner  than  the  time  I  mention,  the  country 
will  not  be  in  complete  beauty.  And  I  will  tell  you  what  you  shall 
find  at  your  first  entrance.  Imprimis,  as  soon  as  you  have  en- 
tered the  vestibule,  if  you  cast  a  look  on  either  side  of  you,  you 
shall  see  on  the  right  hand  a  box  of  my  making.  It  is  the  box  in 
v/hich  have  been  lodged  all  my  hares,  and  in  which  lodges  Puss  at 
present.  But  he,  poor  fellow,  is  worn  out  with  age,  and  promises 
to  die  before  you  can  see  him.  On  the  right  hand  stands  a  cup- 
board, the  work  of  the  same  author.  It  was  once  a  do^'e-cage, 
but  I  transformed  it.  Opposite  to  }^ou  stands  a  table  which  I  also 
made,  but  a  merciless  servant  having  scrubbed  it  until  it  became 
paralytic,  it  serves  no  purpose  now  but  of  ornament,  and  all  my 
clean  shoes  stand  under  it.  On  the  left  hand,  at  the  farther  end 
of  this  superb  vestibule,  you  will  find  the  door  of  the  parlour,  into 
which  I  will  conduct  you,  and  where  I  will  introduce  you  to  Mrs, 
Unwin,  (unless  wc  should  meet  her  before),  and  where  we  will  be 
as  happy  as  the  day  is  long.  Order  yourself,  my  cousin,  to  the 
SAvan,  at  Newport,  and  there  you  sliall  find  me  ready  to  conduct 
you  to  Olney. 

My  dear,  I  have  told  Homer  what  you  say  about  casks  and  urns, 
and  have  asked  him  whether  he  is  sure  that  it  is  a  cask  in  which 
Jupiter  keeps  his  wine.  He  stpears  that  it  is  a  cask,  and  that  it 
will  never  be  any  thing  better  than  a  cask  to  eternity.  So  if  the 
god  is  content  witli  it,  v/e  must  even  wonder  at  his  taste,  and  be 
so  tor.  Adieu,  my  dearest  cousin. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  XLVII. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

Obiey,  Feb,  11,  1786, 

Mv  DLAREST  CoUSIN, 

It  must  be,  I  suppose,  a  fortnight  or  there- 
about, since  I  wrote  last,  I  feel  myself  so  alert  and  so  ready  to 
write  again.  Ee  that  as  it  may,  here  I  come.  We  talk  of  nobody 
but  you ;  what  we  will  do  with  you,  Avhen  v/e  get  you ;  where  yoi^ 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  95 

shall  walk,  where  you  shall  sleep ;  in  short,  every  thing  that  bears 
the  remotest  relation  to  your  well-being  at  Olncy,  occupies  all  our 
talking  time,  which  is  all  that  I  do  not  spend  at  Troy. 

I  have  every  reason  for  writing  to  you  as  often  as  I  can,  but  I 
have  a  particular  reason  for  doing  it  now.     I  want  to  tell  you 
that  by  the  Diligence  on  Wednesday  next  I  mean  to  send  you  a 
qiure  of  my  Homer  for  Maty's  perusal.     It  will  contain  the  first 
book,  and  as  much  of  the  second  as  brings  us  to  the  catalogue  of 
the  ships,  and  is  every  morsel  of  the  revised  copy  that  I  have  tran- 
scribed.    My  dearest  cousin,  read  it  yourself — Let  the  General 
read  it.     Do  what  you  please  with  it,  so  that  it  reach  Johnson  in 
due  time  ;  but  let  Maty  be  the  only  Critic  that  has  any  thing  to  do 
with  it.     The  vexation,  the  perplexity  that  attends  a  multiplicity 
of  criticisms  by  various  hands,  many  of  which  are  sure  to  be  futile, 
many  of  them  ill-founded,  and  some  of  them  contradictory  to 
others,  is  inconceivable,  except  by  the  author   whose  ill-fated 
work  happens  to  be  the  subject  of  them.     This  also  appears  to  me 
self-evident ;  that  if  a  work  have  past  under  the  review  of  one 
man  of  taste  and  learning,  and  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  please 
him,  his  approbation  gives  security  for  that  of  all  others  qualified 
like  himself.     I  speak  tlius,  my  dear,  after  having  just  escaped 
from  such  a  storm  of  trouble,  occasioned  by   endless  remarks, 
hints,  suggestions,  and  objections,  as  drove  me  almost  to  despair, 
and  to  the  very  edge  of  a  resolution  to  drop  my  undertaking  for- 
ever.    With  infinite  difficulty  I,  at  last,  sifted  the  chaff  from  the 
wheat,  availed  myself  of  what  appeared  to  me  to  be  just,  and  re- 
jected the  rest;  but  not  till  the  labour  and  anxiety  had  nearly  un- 
done all  that  Kerr  had  been  doing  for  me.     My  beloved  cousin, 
trust  me  for  it,  as  you  safely  may,  that  temper,  vanity  and  self- 
importance  had  nothing  to  do  in  all  this  distress  that  I  suffered.    It 
was  merely  the  effect  of  an  alarm  that  I  could  not  help  taking, 
when  I  compared  the  great  trouble  I  had  with  a  few  lines  only, 
thus  handled,  with  that  which  I  foresaw  such  handling  of  the  whole 
must  necessarily  give  me.     I  felt  before-hand  tliat  my  constitu- 
tion would  not  bear  it.     I  shall  send  up   this  second  specimen 
in  a  box  that  I  have  had  made  on  jnirpcse ;  and  when  Maty  has 
done  with  the  copy,  and  you  have  done  with  it  yourself,  then  }-oii 
must  return  it  in  said  box  to  my  translatorship.     Though  John- 
son's friend  has  teased  me  sadly,  I  verily  believe  that  I  shall  have' 
no  more  such  cause  to  complain  of  him.     We  now  understand  one 
aiwther,  and  I  firmly  believe  that  I  might  have  gone  the  world 
through,  before  I  had  found  his  equal  in  an  accurate  and  familiar 
acquaintance  with  the  original. 

A  letter  to  Mr.  Urban,  in  the  last  Gentleman's  Magazine,  of 


96  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

which  I's  book  is  the  subject,  pleases  me  more  than  any  thing  I 
have  seen  in  the  way  of  eulogium  yet.  I  have  no  guess  of  the 
author. 

I  do  not  wish  to  remind  the  Chancellor  of  his  promise.  Ask 
you  why,  my  cousin  ?  Because,  I  suppose,  it  would  be  impossible. 
He  has,  no  doubt,  forgotten  it  entirely,  and  would  be  obliged  to 
take  my  word  for  the  truth  of  it,  which  I  could  not  bear.     We 

drank  tea  together  with  Mrs.  C e  and  her  sister,  in  King's- 

street,  Bloomsbury,  and  there  was  the  pi'omise  made.  I  said, 
Thurlow,  I  am  nobod}',  and  shall  be  always  nobody,  and  you  will 
be  Chancellor :  you  shall  pi'ovide  for  me  when  you  are.  He  smiled 
and  replied,  I  surely  will.  These  ladies,  said  I,  are  witnesses. 
He  still  smiled,  and  said,  let  them  be  so,  for  I  will  certainly  do  it. 
But  alas  !  twenty-four  years  have  passed  since  the  day  of  the  date 
thereof,  and  to  mention  it  now  would  be  to  upbraid  him  with  inat- 
tention to  his  plighted  troth.  Neither  do  I  suppose  he  could  easily 
Ferve  such  a  creature  as  I  am  if  he  would. 

Adieu,  whom  I  love  entirely. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  XLVIIL 
To  Lady  HESKETH^ 

Olney^  Feb.  19,  irsg. 
My  DEAREST  Cousin, 

Since  so  it  must  be,  so  it  shall  be.  If  you 
will  not  sleep  under  the  roof  of  a  friend,  may  you  never  sleep  un- 
der the  roof  of  an  enemy.  An  enemy,  however,  you  will  not 
presently  find.  Mrs.  Unwin  bids  me  mention  her  affectionately, 
and  tell  you,  that  she  willingly  gives  up  a  part  for  the  sake  of  the 
rest,  willingly,  at  least  as  far  as  willingly  may  consist  with  some 
reluctance :  I  feel  my  reluctance  too.  Our  design  was,  that  you 
should  have  slept  in  the  room  that  serves  me  for  a  study,  and  its 
having  been  occupied  by  you  would  have  been  an  additional  recom- 
mendation of  it  to  me.  But  all  reluctances  are  supei'seded  by  the 
thought  of  seeing  you;  and  because  we  have  nothing  so  much 
at  heart  as  the  wish  to  see  you  happy  and  comfortable,  we  are 
desirous,  therefore,  to  accommodate  you  to  your  own  mind,  and 
not  to  ours.  Mrs.  Unwin  has  already  secured  for  you  an  apart- 
ment, or  rather  two,  just  such  as  we  could  wish.  The  house  in 
w^hich  you  will  find  them  is  within  thirty  yards  of  our  own,  and 
opposite  to  it.  The  whole  affair  is  tlms  commodiously  adjusted; 
and  now  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  wish  for  June,  and  June,  my 
cousin,  w^s  never  so  wished  for  since  June  \yas  made.    I  shall  have 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  9f ' 

a  thousand  things  to  liear,  and  a  thousand  to  say,  and  they  will 
all  rush  into  my  mind  together,  till  it  will  be  so  crowded  with  things 
impatient  to  be  said,  that  for  some  time  I  shall  say  nothing.  But 
no  matter — Sooner  or  later  they  will  all  come  out ;  and  since  we 
shall  have  you  the  longer,  for  not  having  you  under  our  own  roof, 
(a  circumstance  that  more  than  any  thing  reconciles  us  to  that 
measure)  they  will  stand  the  Ijetter  chance.  After  so  long  a  se- 
paration, a  separation  that,  of  late,  seemed  likely  to  last  for  life,  we 
shall  meet  each  other,  as  alive  from  the  dead;  and,  for  my  own 
part,  I  can  truly  say,  that  I  have  not  a  friend  in  the  other  world 
whose  resurrection  would  give  me  greater  pleasure. 

I  am  truly  happy,  my  dear,  in  having  pleased  you  with  what 
you  have  seen  of  my  Homer.  I  wish  that  all  English  readers  had 
your  unsophisticated,  or  rather  unadulterated  taste,  and  could  relish 
simplicity  like  you.  But  I  am  well  awai-e  that  in  this  respect  I  am 
under  a  disadvantage,  and  that  many,  especially  many  ladies, 
missing  many  turns  and  prettinesses  of  expression  that  they  have 
admired  in  Pope,  will  account  my  translation  in  those  particulars 
■defective.  But  I  comfort  myself  with  the  thought,  that  in  reality 
it  is  no  defect ;  on  the  contrary,  that  the  want  of  all  such  embellish- 
ments as  do  not  belong  to  the  original,  will  be  one  of  its  principal 
merits  with  persons  indeed  capable  of  relishing  Homer.  He  is  the 
best  Poet  that  ever  lived  for  many  reasons,  but  for  none  more  than 
for  that  majestic  plainness  that  distinguishes  him  fi-om  all  others. 
As  an  accomplished  person  moves  gracefully  without  thinking  of 
it,  in  like  manner  the  dignity  of  Homer  seems  to  cost  him  no  labour. 
It  was  natural  to  him  to  say  great  things,  and  to  say  them  well,  and 
little  ornaments  were  beneath  his  notice.  If  Maty,  my  dearest 
cousin,  should  return  to  you  my  copy  with  any  such  strictures  as 
may  make  it  necessary  for  me  to  see  it  again  before  it  goes  to 
Johnson,  in  that  case  you  shall  send  it  to  me ;  otherwise  to 
Johnson  immediately :  for  he  writes  me  word  he  \vishes  his  friend 
to  go  to  work  upon  it  as  soon  as  possible.  When  you  come,  my 
dear,  we  will  hang  all  these  critics  together,  for  they  have  worried 
me  without  remorse  or  conscience,  at  least  one  of  them  has :  I  had 
actually  murthered  more  than  a  few  of  the  best  lines  in  the  speci- 
men, in  compliance  with  his  requisitions,  but  plucked  up  my  cou- 
rage at  last,  and  in  the  very  last  opportunity  that  I  had,  recovered 
them  to  life  again  by  restoring  the  original  reading.  At  the  same 
time  I  readily  confess  that  the  specimen  is  the  better  for  all  this 
discipline  its  author  has  undergone  ;  but  then  it  has  been  more  in- 
debted for  its  improvement  to  that  pointed  accuracy  of  examina- 
tion, to  which  I  was  myself  excited,  than  to  any  proposed  amend- 
ments from  Mr.  Critic;  for  as  sure  as  you  are  my  cousin,  whom 

VOL,  I.  o 


98  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

I  long  to  see  at  Olney,  so  surely  would  he  have  done  me  irrepara- 
ble mischief,  if  I  would  have  given  him  leave. 

My  friend  Bagot  writes  to  me  in  a  most  friendly  strain,  and 
calls  loudly  upon  me  for  original  poetry.  When  I  shall  have  done 
with  Homer,  probably  he  will  not  call  in  vain ;  having  found  the 
prime  feather  of  a  swan  on  the  banks  of  the  snug  and  silver  Trent, 
he  keeps  it  for  me.  Adieu,  dear  cousin. 

W.  C. 

I  am  sorry  that  the  General  has  such  indifferent  health.  He 
must  not  die.     I  can  by  no  means  spare  a  person  so  kind  to  me. 


LETTER  XLIX. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

Olney,  March  6,  1786. 

My  dearest  Cousin, 

Your  opinion  has  more  weight  with  me 
than  that  of  all  the  critics  in  the  world,  and  to  give  you  a  proof 
of  it,  I  make  you  a  concession  that  I  would  hardly  have  made  to 
them  all  united.  I  do  not,  indeed,  absolutely  covenant,  promise, 
and  agree,  that  I  will  discard  all  my  elisions,  but  I  hereby  bind 
myself  to  dismiss  as  many  of  them,  as,  without  sacrificing  energy 
to  sound,  I  can.  It  is  incumbent  upon  me,  in  the  mean  time,  to  say 
something  in  justification  of  the  few  that  I  shall  retain,  that  I  may 
not  seem  a  Poet  mounted  rather  on  a  mule  than  on  Pegasus.  In 
the  first  place.  The,  is  a  barbarism.  We  are  indebted  for  it  to  the 
Celts,  or  the  Goths,  or  to  the  Saxons,  or  perhaps  to  them  all.  In 
the  two  best  languages  that  ever  were  spoken,  the  Greek  and  the 
Latin,  there  is  no  similar  incumbrance  of  expression  to  be  found. 
Secondly,  the  perpetual  use  of  it  in  our  language  is,  to  us  miser- 
able poets,  attended  with  two  great  inconveniences.  Our  verse 
consisting  only  of  ten  syllables,  it  not  unfrequently  happens,  that 
the  fifth  part  of  a  line  is  to  be  engrossed,  and  necessarily  too, 
(unless  elision  prevents  it)  by  this  abominable  intruder :  and  which 
is  worse  in  my  account,  open  vowels  are  continuall}'  the  conse- 
quence:— The  element — The  air.  Sec.  Thirdly,  the  French,  who 
are  equally  with  the  English  chargeable  with  barbarism  in  this  par- 
ticular, dispose  of  their  Le  and  their  ha  without  ceremony,  and 
always  take  care  that  they  shall  be  absorbed,  both  in  verse  and  in 
prose,  in  the  vowel  that  immediately  follows  them.  Fourthly,  and 
I  believe  lastly,  (and  for  your  sake  I  wish  it  may  prove  so)  the 
practice  of  cutting  short  a  T}ie  is  warranted  by  Milton,  who,  of 
all  English  poets  that  ever  lived,  had  certahily  the  finest  ear.  Dr. 
VVarton  indeed  has  dared  to  say  that  he  had  a  bad  one,  for  which 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  99 

he  deserves,  as  far  as  ci'itical  demerit  can  deserve  it,  to  lose  his 
own.  I  thought  I  had  done,  but  there  is  still  a  fifthly  behind,  and  it 
is  this ;  that  the  custom  of  abbreviating  The  belongs  to  the  stile  in 
wlaich,  in  my  advertisement  annexed  to  the  specimen,  I  profess  to 
write.  The  use  of  that  stile  would  have  Avarranted  me  in  the 
practice  of  much  greater  liberty  of  this  sort  than  I  ever  intended  to 
take.  In  perfect  consistence  with  that  stile  I  might  say  I'  th'  tem- 
pest, r  th'  door-way,  Sec.  which,  however,  I  would  not  allow  my- 
self to  do,  because  I  was  aware  that  it  would  be  objected  to,  and 
with  reason.  But  it  seems  to  me,  for  the  causes  above  said,  that 
when  I  shorten  Thc^  before  a  vowel,  or  before  wA,  as  in  the  line 
jT)u  mention, 

"  Than  th'  whole  broad  Hellespont  in  all  his  parts," 

my  licence  is  not  equally  exceptionable.  Because  W^  though  he 
rank  as  a  consonant  in  the  word  wholc^  is  not  allowed  to  announce 
himself  to  the  ear,  and  H  is  an  aspirate.  But  as  I  said  at  the  be- 
ginning, so  say  I  still,  I  am  most  willing  to  conform  myself  to  your 
very  sensible  observation,  that  it  is  necessary,  if  we  would  please, 
to  consult  the  taste  of  our  own  day.  Neither  would  I  have  pelted 
you,  my  dearest  cousin,  with  any  part  of  this  volley  of  good  rea- 
sons, had  I  not  designed  them  as  an  answer  to  those  objections 
which  you  say  you  have  heard  from  others.  But  I  only  mention 
them.  Though  satisfactory  to  myself,  I  wave  them,  and  will  al- 
low to  The  his  whole  dimensions,  whensoever  it  can  be  done. 

Thou  only  Critic  of  my  verse  that  is  to  be  found  in  all  the  earth 
whom  I  love,  what  shall  I  say  in  answer  to  your  own  objection  to 
tliat  passage — 

"  Softly  he  placed  his  hand 
"  On  th'  Old  man's  hand,  and  push'd  it  gently  away," 

I  can  say  neither  more  nor  less  than  this,  that  when  our  deai- 
friend  the  General  sent  me  his  opinion  of  the  specimen,  quoting 
those  very  words  from  it,  he  added,  "With  this  part  I  was  pai'- 
ticularly  pleased:  there  is  nothing  in  poetry  more  descriptive." 
Such  were  his  very  words.  Taste,  my  dear,  is  various ;  there  is 
nothing  so  various,  and  even  between  persons  of  the  best  taste  there 
are  diversities  of  opinion  on  the  same  subject,  for  which  it  is  not 
possible  to  account.     So  much  for  these  matters. 

You  advise  me  to  consult  the  General,  and  to  confide  in  him. 
I  follow  your  advice,  and  have  done  both.  By  the  last  post  I 
asked  his  permission  to  send  him  the  Books  of  my  Homer,  as  fast 
as  I  slioukl  finish  them  oft'.  I  sliall  I)e  glad  of  his  renuirks,  and 
more  glad  than  of  any  tiling,  to(i<i  tliat  uliichl  hope  may  Ije  agree~ 


100  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

able  to  him.  They  will  of  course  pass  into  your  hands  before  they 
are  sent  to  Johnson.  The  quire  that  I  sent  is  now  in  the  hands  of 
Johnson's  friend.  I  intended  to  have  told  you  in  my  last,  but  for- 
got it,  that  Johnson  behaves  very  handsomely  in  the  affair  of  my 
two  volumes.  He  acts  with  a  liberality  not  often  found  in  persons 
of  his  occupation,  and  to  mention  it  when  occasion  calls  me  to  it,  is 
a  justice  due  to  him. 

I  am  very  much  pleased  with  Mr.  Stanley's  letter — sevei'al  com- 
pliments were  paid  me  on  the  subject  of  that  first  volume  by  my 
own  friends,  but  I  do  not  recollect  that  I  ever  knew  the  opinion  of 
a  stranger  about  it  before,  whether  favourable  or  otherwise :  I  only 
heard  by  a  side  wind  that  it  was  very  much  read  in  Scotland,  and 
more  than  here. 

Farewell,  my  dearest  cousin,  whom  we  expect,  of  whom  we 
talk  continually,  and  whom  we  continually  long  for. 

W.  C 

Your  anxious  wishes  for  my  success  delight  me,  and  you  may 
rest  assured,  my  dear,  that  I  have  all  the  ambition  on  the  subject 
that  you  can  wish  me  to  feel.  I  more  than  admire  my  author.  I 
often  stand  astonished  at  his  beauties.  I  am  for  ever  amused  with 
the  translation  of  him,  and  I  have  received  a  thousand  encourage- 
ments. These  are  all  so  many  happy  omens  that,  I  hope,  shall  be 
verified  by  the  event. 

LETTER  L. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esquire. 

jiJirilSy  1786. 
I  did,  as  you  suppose,  bestow  all  possible  con- 
sideration on  the  subject  of  an  apology  for  my  Homerican  under- 
taking. I  turned  the  matter  about  in  my  mind  an  hundred  dif- 
ferent ways,  and  in  every  way  in  which  it  would  present  itself, 
found  it  an  impracticable  business.  It  is  impossible  for  me,  with 
■What  delicacy  soever  I  may  manage  it,  to  state  the  objections  that 
lie  against  Pope's  translation,  without  incurring  odium,  and  the 
imputation  of  arrogance :  foreseeing  this  danger,  I  choose  to  say 
nothing. 

W.  C. 
P.  S.  You  may  well  wonder  at  my  courage,  who  have  under- 
taken a  work  of  such  enormous  length.  You  would  wonder  more 
if  you  knew  that  I  translated  the  whole  Iliad  with  no  other  help 
than  a  Clavis.  But  I  have  since  equipped  myself  better  for  this 
immense  journey,  and  am  revising  the  work  in  company  with  a, 
good  commentator, 


LfFE  OF  CO'WPER.  101 

LETTER  LT. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

Olney^  jifiril  IT,  1786. 
If  you  will  not  quote  Solomon,  my  dearest 
cousin,  I  will.  He  says,  and  as  beautifully  as  truly — "  Hope  de- 
ferred  maketh  the  heart  sick,  but  when  the  desire  cometh,  it  is  a 
tree  of  life!"  I  feel  how  much  reason  he  had  on  his  side  when 
he  made  this  observation,  and  am  myself  sick  of  your  fortnight's 
delay. 

The  Vicarage  was  built  by  Lord  Dartmouth,  and  was  not 
finished  till  some  time  after  we  arrived  at  Olney ;  consequently  it 
is  new.  It  is  a  smai't  stone  building,  well  sashed,  by  much  too 
good  for  the  living,  but  just  what  I  would  wish  for  you.  It  has, 
as  you  justly  concluded  from  my  premises,  a  garden,  but  rather 
calculated  for  use  than  oi-nament.  It  is  square,  and  well  walled, 
but  has  neither  arbour  nor  alcove,  nor  other  shade,  except  the 
shadow  of  the  house.  But  we  have  two  gardens,  which  are  yours. 
Between  your  mansion  and  ours  is  interposed  nothing  but  an  or- 
chard, into  which  a  door,  opening  out  of  our  garden,  aflFords  us 
the  easiest  communication  imaginable,  will  save  the  round  about 
by  the  town,  and  make  both  houses  one.  Your  chamber  windows 
look  over  the  river,  and  over  the  meadows,  to  a  village  called 
Emberton,  and  command  the  whole  length  of  a  long  bridge,  de- 
scribed by  a  certain  Poet,  together  with  a  view  of  the  road  at  a 
distance.  Should  you  wish  for  books  at  Olney,  you  must  bring 
them  with  you,  or  you  will  wish  in  vain ;  for  I  have  none  but  the 
works  of  a  certain  Poet,  Cowper,  of  whom,  perhaps,  you  have 
heard,  and  they  are  as  yet  but  two  volumes.  Tliey  may  multiply 
hereafter,  but  at  present  they  are  no  more. 

You  are  the  first  person  for  whom  I  have  heard  Mrs.  L^nwiii 
express  such  feelings  as  she  does  for  you.  She  is  not  profuse  in 
professions,  nor  forward  to  enter  into  treaties  of  friendship  with 
new  faces ;  but  when  her  friendship  is  once  engaged,  it  may  be 
confided  in  even  unto  death.  She  loves  you  already,  and  how 
much  more  will  she  love  you  before  this  time  twelvemonth !  I 
have  indeed  endeavoured  to  describe  you  to  her ;  but  perfectly  as 
I  have  you  by  heart,  I  am  sensible  that  my  picture  cannot  do  you 
justice:  I  never  saw  one  that  did.  Be  you  what  you  may,  you  arc 
much  beloved,  and  v/ill  be  so  at  Olnev ;  and  Mrs.  Unwin  expects 
you  with  the  pleasure  that  one  feels  at  the  return  of  a  long  absent, 
dear  relation ;  that  is  to  say,  Avith  a  pleasure  such  as  mine.  Slie 
gpnds  you  her  warmest  affections. 


i03  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

On  Friday  I  received  a  letter  from  dear  Anonymous,  apprising 
me  of  a  parcel  that  the  coach  would  bring  me  on  Saturday.  Who 
is  there  in  the  world  that  has,  or  thinks  he  has,  reason  to  love  me 
to  the  degree  that  he  does?  But  it  is  no  matter.  He  chooses  to  be 
unknown,  and  his  choice  is  and  ever  shall  be  so  sacred  to  me,  that 
if  his  name  lay  on  the  table  before  me  reversed,  I  would  not  turn 
the  paper  about  that  I  might  read  it.  Much  as  it  would  gratify 
me  to  thank  him,  I  would  turn  my  eyes  away  from  the  forbidden 
discovery.  I  long  to  assure  him  that  those  same  eyes,  concerning 
which  he  expresses  such  kind  apprehensions  least  they  should 
suffer  by  this  laborious  undertaking,  are  as  well  as  I  could  expect 
them  to  be,  if  I  were  never  to  touch  either  book  or  pen.  Subject 
to  weakness,  and  occasional  slight  inflammations,  it  is  probable 
that  they  will  always  be  ;  but  I  cannot  remember  the  time  when 
they  enjoyed  any  thing  so  like  an  exemption  from  those  infirmities 
as  at  present.  One  would  almost  suppose  that  reading  Homer 
were  the  best  opthalmic  in  the  world.  I  should  be  happy  to  re- 
move his  solicitude  on  the  subject,  but  it  is  a  pleasure  that  he  will 
not  let  me  enjoy.  Well,  then,  I  will  be  content  without  it ;  and 
so  content,  that  though  I  believe  you,  my  dear,  to  be  in  full  pos- 
session of  all  this  mystery,  you  shall  never  know  me  while  3'ou 
live,  either  directly,  or  by  hints  of  any  sort,  attempt  to  extort 
or  to  steal  the  secret  from  you.  I  should  think  myself  as  justly 
punishable  as  the  Bethshemites,  for  looking  into  the  ark  which 
they  were  not  allowed  to  touch. 

I  have  not  sent  for  Kerr,  for  Kerr  can  do  nothing  but  send  me 
to  Bath,  and  to  Bath  I  cannot  go  for  a  thousand  reasons.  The 
summer  will  set  me  up  again;  I  grow  fat  every  day,  and  shall 
be  as  big  as  Gog,  or  Magog,  or  both  put  together,  before  you 
come. 

I  did  actually  live  three  years  with  Mr.  Chapman,  a  Solicitor, 
that  is  to  say,  I  slept  three  years  in  his  house,  but  I  lived,  that  is 
to  say,  I  spent  my  days,  in  Southampton-Row,  as  you  very  well 
remember.  There  was  I,  and  the  future  Lord  Chancellor,  con- 
stantly employed,  from  morning  to  night,  in  giggling,  and  mak- 
ing giggle,  instead  of  studying  the  law.  O  fie,  cousin,  how  could 
you  do  so?  I  am  pleased  with  LordThurlow's  inquiries  about  me. 
If  he  takes  it  into  that  inimitable  head  of  his,  he  may  make  a 
man  of  me  yet.  I  could  love  him  heartily,  if  he  would  but  de- 
serve it  at  my  hands.     That  I   did  so   once,  is  certain.     The 

Dutchess  of ,  who  in  the  world  set  her  agoing?    But  if  all  the 

Dutchesses  in  the  world  were  spinning,  like  so  many  whirligigs,  for 
my  benefit,  I  would  not  stop  them.  It  is  a  noble  thing  to  be  a  Poet, 
it  makes  all  the  world  so  lively.     I  might  liav  c  preached  more 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  105 

sermons  than  even  Tillotson  did,  and  better,  and  the  world 
would  have  been  still  fast  asleep;  but  a  volume  of  verse  is  a  fiddle 
that  puts  the  universe  in  motion,  W.  C. 


LETTER  LIL 

To  Lady  HESKETH. 

Olney^  Jijiril  24,  178G. 
Your  letters  are  so  much  my  comfort  that 
I  often  tremble  least  by  any  accident  I  should  be  disappointed ;  and 
the  more,  because  you  have  been,  more  tlian  once,  so  engag-ed  in 
company  on  the  writing  day,  that  I  have  had  a  narrow  escape. 
Let  me  give  you  a  piece  of  good  counsel,  my  cousin :  Follow  my 
laudable  example — write  when  you  can — take  time's  forelock  in 
one  hand,  and  a  pen  in  the  other,  and  so  make  sure  of  your  op- 
portunity. It  is  well  for  me  that  you  write  faster  than  any  body, 
and  more  in  an  hour  than  other  people  in  two,  else  I  know  not 
what  would  become  of  mc.  When  I  i-ead  your  letters  I  hear  you 
talk,  and  I  love  talking  letters  dearly,  especially  from  you.  Well, 
the  middle  of  June  will  not  be  always  a  thousand  years  off,  and 
when  it  comes  I  shall  hear  you,  and  see  you  too,  and  shall  not 
care  a  farthing  then  if  you  do  not  touch  a  pen  in  a  month.  By  the 
Avay,  you  must  either  send  me  or  bring  mc  some  more  paper,  for 
before  the  moon  shall  have  performed  a  few  more  revolutions,  I 
shall  not  have  a  scrap  left ;  and  tedious  revolutions  they  are  just 
now,  that  is  certain. 

I  give  you  leave  to  be  as  peremptory  as  you  please,  especially 
at  a  distance ;  but  when  you  say  that  you  are  a  Cowper,  (and  the 
better  it  is  for  the  CoAvpers  that  such  you  are,  and  I  give  them  joy 
of  you  with  all  my  heart)  you  must  uot  forget  that  I  boast  myself 
a  Co^vper  too,  and  have  my  humours,  and  fancies,  and  pui-poses, 
and  determinations,  as  well  as  others  of  my  name,  and  hold  them 
as  fast  as  they  can.  You  indeed  tell  7ne  how  often  I  shall  see  you 
when  you  come.  A  pretty  story  truly.  I  am  a  He  Cowper,  my 
dear,  and  claim  the  privileges  that  belong  to  my  noble  sex.  But 
these  matters  shall  be  settled,  as  my  cousin  Agamemnon  used  to 
say,  at  a  more  convenient  time. 

I  shall  rejoice  to  see  the  letter  you  promise  me;  for  though  I 
met  with  a  morsel  of  praise  last  week,  I  do  not  know  tliat  tlie  week 
current  is  likely  to  produce  me  any;  and  having  lately  been  pretty 
much  pampered  with  that  diet,  J  expect  to  find  myself  rather 
luuigry  by  the  time  when  your  next  letter  sliall  arrive.  It  \A\\ 
tlicrefore  be  very  oppoi-tune.  The  morsel  above  alluded  to  came 
fiom— whom  do  \q\\  think?    From >;  but  she  desires  that  licr 


104  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

authorship  may  be  a  secret.  And  in  my  answer  I  promised  not  to 
divulge  it,  except  to  you.  It  is  a  pretty  copy  of  verses  neatly 
■written,  and  well  turned,  and  when  you  come  you  shall  see  them. 
I  intend  to  keep  all  pretty  things  to  myself  till  then,  that  they  may 
serve  me  as  a  bait  to  lure  you  hither  more  effectually.  The  last 
letter  that  I  had  from  i,  I  received  so  many  years  since,  that  it 
seems  as  if  it  had  reached  me  a  good  while  before  I  was  born. 

I  was  grieved  at  the  heart  that  the  General  could  not  come,  and 
that  illness  was  in  part  the  cause  that  hindered  him.  I  have  sent 
him,  by  his  express  desire,  a  new  edition  of  the  first  book,  and  half 
the  second.  He  would  not  suflFer  me  to  send  it  to  you,  my  dear, 
least  you  should  post  it  away  to  Maty  at  once.  He  did  not  give 
that  reason,  but  being  shi'ewd,  I  found  it. 

The  grass  begins  to  grow,  and  the  leaves  to  bud,  and  every  thing 
is  preparing  to  be  beautiful  against  you  come.     Adieu. 

W.C. 

You  inquire  of  our  walks,  I  perceive,  as  well  as  of  our  rides. 
They  are  beautiful.  You  inquire  also  concerning  a  cellar.  You 
have  two  cellars.  Oh !  what  years  have  passed  since  we  took  tlie 
same  walks,  and  drank  out  of  the  same  bottle  I  but  a  few  move 
weeks,  and  then ! 


LETTER  LIIT. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

Olney,  May  8,  1786, 
I  did  not  at  all  doubt  that  your  tenderness 
for  my  feelings  had  inclined  you  to  suppress  in  your  letters  to  me 
the  intelligence  concerning  Maty's  critique,  that  yet  reached  me 
from  another  quarter.  When  I  wrote  to  you  I  had  not  learned  it 
from  the  General,  but  from  my  friend  Bull,  who  only  knew  it  by 
hear-say.  Tlie  next  post  brought  me  the  news  of  it  from  the  first 
mentioned,  and  the  critique  itself  inclosed.  Together  with  it 
came  also  a  squib  discharged  against  me  in  the  Public  Advertiser. 
Tlie  General's  letter  found  me  in  one  of  my  most  melancholy 
moods,  and  my  spirits  did  not  rise  on  the  receipt  of  it.  Tlie 
letter,  indeed,  that  he  had  cut  from  the  news-paper  gave  me 
little  pain,  both  because  it  contained  nothing  formidable,  though 
written  with  malevolence  enough,  and  because  a  nameless  author 
can  have  no  more  weight  with  his  readers  than  the  reason  which 
he  has  on  his  side  can  give  him. .  But  Maty's  animadversions  hurt 
me  more.  In  part  they  appeared  to  me  unjust,  and  in  part  ill- 
natured  ;  and  yet  the  man  himself  being  an  oracle  in  every  body's 
account,  I  apprehended  that  he  had  done  me  much  mischief* 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  105 

Why  he  says  that  the  translation  is  far  from  exact,  is  best  kno-\vn 
to  himself:  for  I  know  it  to  be  as  exact  as  is  compatible  with 
poetry;  and  prose  translations  of  Homer  are  not  wanted;  the 
world  has  one  already.  But  I  will  not  fill  my  letter  to  you  with 
hypercriticisms ;  I  will  only  add  an  extract  from  a  letter  of  Col- 
man's,  that  I  received  last  Friday,  and  will  then  dismiss  the  sub- 
ject. It  came  accompanied  by  a  copy  of  the  specimen,  which  he 
himself  had  amended,  and  with  so  much  taste  and  candour  that  it 
charmed  me.     He  says  as  follows: 

"  One  copy  I  have  returned,  with  some  remarks,  prompted  by 
my  zeal  for  your  success ;  not.  Heaven  knows,  by  aiTogance  or 
impertinence.  I  know  no  other  way,  at  once  so  plain  and  so  shortj 
of  delivering  my  thoughts  on  the  specimen  of  your  translation, 
which,  on  the  whole,  I  admire  exceedingly;  tliinking  it  breathes 
the  spirit,  artd  conveys  the  manner  of  the  original ;  though  hav- 
ing here  neither  Homer,  nor  Pope's  Homer,  I  cannot  speak  pre- 
cisely of  particular  lines  or  expressions,  or  compare  your  blank 
verse  \vith  his  rhyme,  except  by  declaring,  that  I  think  blank 
verse  infinitely  more  congenial  to  the  magnificent  simplicity  of  Ho- 
mer's hexameters,  than  the  confined  couplets,  and  the  jingle  of 
rhyme." 

His  amendments  are  chiefly  bestowed  on  the  lines  encumberedf 
with  elisions  ;  and  I  will  just  take  this  opportunity  to  tell  you,  my 
dear,  because  I  know  you  to  be  as  much  interested  in  what  I  write 
as  myself,  that  some  of  the  most  offensive  of  these  elisions  were 
occasioned  by  mere  criticism.     I  was  fairly  hunted  into  them  by 

vexatious  objections  made  without  end  by •  and  his  friend,  and 

altered,    and  altered,  till  at  last  I  did  not  care  how  I  altered. 

Many  thanks  for .'s  verses,  which  deserve  just  the  character 

you  give  of  them :  they  are  neat  and  easy — ^but  I  would  mumble 
her  well  if  I  could  get  at  her,  for  allowing  herself  to  suppose  for  a 
moment  that  I  praised  the  Chancellor  with  a  view  to  emolument. 
I  wrote  those  stanzas  merely  for  my  own  amusement,  and  they 
slept  in  a  dark  closet  years  after  I  composed  them  ;  not  in  tlie 
least  designed  for  publication.  But  when  Johnson  had  printed  off" 
the  longer  pieces  of  which  the  first  volume  principally  consists,  he 
wrote  me  word  that  he  wanted  yet  two  thousand  lines  to  swell 
it  to  a  proper  size.  On  that  occasion  it  was,  that  T collected  every 
scrap  of  verse  that  I  could  find,  and  tliat  among  the  rest.  None  of 
the  smaller  poems  had  been  introduced,  or  had  been  published  at 
all  with  my  name,  but  for  this  necessity. 

Just  as  I  wrote  the  last  word,  I  was  called  dovm  to  Dr.  Kerr, 
who  came  to  pay  me  a  voluntary  visit.     Were  I  sick,  his  cheerful 
and  friendly  manner  would  almost  restore  me.     Air  and  exer- 
voi..  I.  p 


^106  OFE  OF  COWPER. 

cise  are  his  them^ ;  them,  he  recommends  as  the  best  phjrsic  far 
me,  and  in  air  weathers.  Come,  therefore,  my  dear,  and  take  a 
little  of  this  good  physic  with  me,  for  you  will  find  it  beneficial  as 
wen  as  I ;  come  and  assist  Mrs.  Unwin  in  the  re-establishment  of 
'your  cousin's  health.  Air  and  exercise,  and  she  and  you  together^ 
will  make  me  a  perfect  Samson.  You  will  have  a  good  house  over 
your  head,  comfortable  apartments,  obliging  neighbours,  good  roads, 
a  pleasant  country,  and  in  us  your  constant  companions,  two  who 
will  love  you,  and  do  already  love  you  dearly,  and  with  all  our 
"hearts.  If  you  are  in  any  danger  of  trouble,  it  is  from  myself,  if 
■■  my  fits  of  dejection  seize  me ;  and  as  often  as  they  do,  you  will  be 
grieved  for  me :  but  perhaps  by  your  assistance  I  shall  be  able  to 
resist  them  better.  If  there. is  a  creature  under  Heaven,  from 
whose  co-operations  with  Mrs.  Unwin  I  can  reasonably  expect 
such  a  blessing,  that  creature  is  yourself.  I  was  not  without  such 
attacks  when  I  lived  in  London,  though  at  that  time  they  were  less 
oppressive ;  but  in  your  company  I  was  never  unhappy  a  whole 
day  in  all  my  life. 

Of  how  much  importance  is  an  author  to  himself  I  I  return  to 
that  abominable  specimen  again,  just  to  notice  Maty's  impatient 
censure  of  the  repetition  that  you  mention.  I  mean  of  the  word 
Hand.  In  the  original  there  is  not  a  repetition  of  it*  Btit  to  re- 
peat a  word  in  that  manner,  and  on  such  an  occasion,  is  by  no 
means  what  he  calls  it,  a  modem  invention.  In  Homer  I  could 
show  him  many  such,  and  in  Virgil  they  abound.  Colman,  who  in 
his  judgment  of  classical  matters  is  inferior  to  none,  says,  "  Iknoiti 
not  why  Maty  objects  to  this  exfiressiov."  I  could  easily  change 
it,  but  the  case  standing  thus,  I  know  not  whether  my  proud  sto- 
inach  will  condescend  so  low.  I  rather  feel  myself  disinclined  to  it. 

Oxie  evening  last  week  Mrs.  Unwin  and  I  took  our  walk  to  Wes- 
ton, and  as  we  were  returning  through  the  grove,  opposite  the 
house,  the  Throckmortons  presented  themselves  at  the  door. 
They  are  owners  of  a  house  at  Weston,  at  present  empty.  It  is  a 
ryery  good  one,  infinitely  superior  to  ours.  When  we  drank  cho- 
■  colate  with  them,  they  both  expressed  their  ardent  desire  that  we 
would  take  it,  wishing  to  have  us  for  nearer  neighbours.  If  you, 
my  cousin,  were  not  so  well  provided  for  as  you  are,  and  at  our 
'  Very  elbow,  I. verily  believe  I  should  have-  mustered  all  my  rheto- 
ric to  recommend  it  to  you.  Yx)u  might  have  it  for  ever  without 
danger  of  ejectment ;  whereas  j^our  possession  of  the  vicarage  de- 
pends on  the  life  of  the  vicar,  who  is  eighty-six.  The  environs  sire 
most  beautiful,  and  the  village  itself  one  of  the  prettiest  I  ever  saw. 
Add  to  this,  you  would  step  immediately  into  Mr.  Throckmorton's 
pleasure-ground,  where  you  would  not  soil  your  slipper  even  ia 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  107 

winter.  A  most  unfortunate  mistake  was  made  by  that  gentleman's 
bailiff  in  his  absence.  Just  before  he  left  Weston  last  year,  for  the 
•winter,  he  gave  him  orders  to  cut  short  the  tops  of  the  flowering 
shrubs,  that  lined  a  serpentine  walk  in  a  delightful  grove,  cele- 
brated by  my  poetship  in  a  little  piece  that  you  remember  was 
■called  the  "  Shrubbery."  The  dunce,  misapprehending  the  order, 
cut  down  and  faggotted  up  the  whole  grove,  leaving  neither  tree, 
Jbush,  nor  twig;  nothing  but  stumps  about  as  high  as  my  ankle. 
Mrs.  Throckmorton  told  os  that  she  never  saw  her  husband  so 
angry  in  his  life.  I  judge  indeed  by  his  physiognomy,  which  has 
-^eat  sweetness  in  it,  that  he  is  very  little  addicted  to  that  infernal 
passion  ;  but  had  he  cudgelled  the  man  for  his  cruel  blunder,  and 

.  the  havoc  made  in  consequence  of  it,  I  could  have  excused  him.. 
I  felt  myself  really  concerned  for  the  Chancellor's  illness,  and 

;  from  what  I  learned  of  it,  both  from  the  papers  and  from  General 
Cowper,  concluded  that  he  must  die.  I  am  accordingly  delighted 
in  the  same  propo?rtion  with  the  news  of  his  recovery.  May  he 
live,  and  live  to  be  still  the  support  of  government  I  If  it  shall  be 
his  good  pleasure  to  render  me  personally  any  material  service,  I 

'  have  no  objection  to  it ;  but  Heaven  knows  that  it  is  impossible 

I  for  any  living  wight  to  bestow  less  thought  on  Uiat  subject  than 
jnysejf. 

fe.i  {2  -i    ..  May  God  be  ever  with  you,  my  beloved  cousin. 

foIoo:> I  lariJoH  jyi    ^vfi-.-bas'tti   ■x^-ih.-\^  ^r  ,A'  Jiir.i  sd  t?     W.  C. 

LETTER  LIV. 
To  Lady  HESKETH.  :'^" 

J, ,  ,  Olney,  May  15,  1786. 

From  this  very  morning  I  begin  to  date 
the  last  month  of  our  long  separation,  and  confidently,  and  most 
comfortably  hope,  that  before  the  15th  of  June  shall  present  itself, 
we  shall  have  seen  each  other.  Is  it  not  so?  And  will  it  not  be 
one  of  the  most  extraordinary  sras  of  my  extraordinary  life  ?  A 
year  ago,  we  neither  corresponded  nor  expected  to  meet  in  this 
world.  But  this  world  is  a  scene  of  marvellous  events,  many  of 
them  more  marvellous  than  fiction  itself  would  dare  to  hazard;  and, 
blessed  be  God !  they  are  not  all  of  the  distressing  kind ;  now  and 
then,  in  the  course  of  an  existence  whose  hue  is  for  the  most  part 
sable,  a  day  turns  up  that  makes  amends  for  many  sighs,  and  many 
subjects  of  complaint.  Such  a  day  shall  I  account  the  day  of  your 
arrival  at  Olney. 

Wherefore  is  it,,  canst  thou  tell  me,  that,  together  with  all 
those  delightful  sensations  to.whicli  tlic  iight  of  a  long  absent 


105  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

dear  friend  gives  birth,  there  is  a  mixture  of  somethiiig  painftil? 
Flutter ings,  and  tumults,  and  I  know  not  what  accompaniments  of 
our  pleasure,  that  are,  in  fact,  perfectly  foreign  from  the  occasion? 
Such  I  feel  when  I  think  of  our  meeting,  and  such,  I  suppose,  feel 
you;  and  the  nearer  the  crisis  approaches  the  more  I  am  sensible 
of  them.     I  know,  beforehand,  that  they  will  increase  with  every 
turn  of  the  wheels  that  shall  convey  me  to  Ne\vport,  when  I  shall 
set  out  to  meet  you,  and  that  when  we  actually  meet,  the  pleasure, 
and  this  unaccountable  pain  together,  will  be  as  much  as  I  shall  be 
able  to  support.     I  am  utterly  at  a  loss  for  the  cause,  and  can  only 
resolve  it  into  that  appointment,  by  which  it  has  been  fore-ordained 
that  all  human  delights  shall  be  quahfied  and  mingled  with  their 
contraries.    For  there  is  nothing  formidable  in  you,  to  me  at  least, 
there  is  nothing  such.    No,  not  even  in  your  menaces,  unless  when 
you  threaten  me  to  •xvrite  no  more.     Nay,  I  verily  believe,  did  I 
not  know  you  to  be  what  you  are,  and  had  less  affection  for  you 
than  I  have,  I  should  have  fewer  of  these  emotions,  of  which  I 
would  have  none  if  I  could  help  it.     But  a  fig  for  them  all  I  Let  us 
resolve  to  combat  with,  and  to  conquer  them.     They  are  dreams, 
they  are  illusions  of  the  judgment :    some  enemy  that  hates  the 
happiness  of  human  kind,  and  is  ever  industrious  to  dash  it,  works 
them  in  us,  and  their  being  so  perfectly  unreasonable  as  they  are 
is  a  proof  of  it.     Nothing  that  is  such  can  be  the  work  of  a  good 
agent.    This  I  know  too  by  experience,  that,  like  all  other  illusions, 
they  exist  only  by  force  of  imagination — are  indebted  for  their  pre- 
valence to  the  absence  of  their  object,  and  in  a  few  moments  after 
its  appearance  cease.    So,  then,  this  is  a  settled  point,  and  the  case 
stands  thus :    You  will  tremble  as  you  draw  near  to  Newport,  and 
so  shall  I:    but  we  will  both  recollect  that  there  is  no  reason  why 
■we  should,  and  this  recollection  will  at  least  have  some  little  effect 
in  our  favour.    We  will  likewise  both  take  the  comfort  of  what  we 
know  to  be  true,  that  the  tumult  will  soon  cease,  and  the  pleasure 
long  survive  the  pain,  even  as  long,  I  trust,  as  we  ourselves  shall 
survive  it. 

VVhat  you  say  of  Maty  gives  me  all  the  consolation  that  you  in- 
tended. VVe  both  think  it  highly  probable  that  you  suggest  the 
true  cause  of  his  displeasure,  when  you  suppose  him  mortified  at 
not  having  had  a  part  of  the  translation  laid  before  him,  ere  the 
specimen  was  published.  The  General  was  very  much  hurt,  and 
calls  his  censure  harsh  and  unreasonable.  He  likewise  sent  me  a 
consolatory  letter  on  the  occasion,  in  which  he  took  the  kindest 
pains  to  heal  the  wound  that  he  supposed  I  might  have  suffered.  I 
am  not  naturally  insensible,  and  the  sensibilities  that  I  had  by  na- 
t\ire  have  been  v/onderfully  enhanced  by  a  long  scries  of  shocks, 


LIFE  OF  COWPEK.  109 

g^iven  to  a  frame  of  nerves  that  was  nevei*  very  athletic.  I  feel  ac- 
cordingly, Avhether  painful  or  pleasant,  in  the  extreme — am  easily 
elevated,  and  easily  cast  down.  The  fro-wh  of  a  critic  freezes  my 
poetical  poAvers,  and  discourages  me  to  a  degree  that  makes  me 
ashamed  of  my  own  weakness.  Yet  I  presently  recoA  er  my  confi- 
dence again.  The  half  of  what  you  so  kindly  say  in  your  last,  would 
at  any  time  restore  my  spirits,  and  being  said  by  you,  is  infallible. 
I  am  not  ashamed  to  confess,  that  having  commenced  an  Autlior, 
I  am  most  abundantly  desirous  to  succeed  as  such.  I  have  (Kvhat 
perhaps  you  little  susfiect  me  of)  in  my  nature^  an  ivjinite  share 
of  ambition.  But  with  it,  I  have,  at  the  same  time,  as  you  well 
know,  an  equal  share  of  diffidence.  To  this  combination  of  op- 
posite qualities  it  has  been  owing,  that  till  lately  I  stole  through 
life  without  undertaking  any  thing,  yet  always  wishing  to  distinguish 
myself.  At  last  I  ventui-ed,  ventured  too  in  the  only  path  that,  at 
so  late  a  period,  was  yet  open  to  me,  and  am  determined,  if  God 
have  not  determined  othervv^ise,  to  work  my  way  through  the  ob- 
scurity that  has  been  so  long  my  portion  into  notice.  Every  thing, 
therefore,  that  seems  to  threaten  this  my  favourite  purpose  with 
tlisappointment,  affects  me  nearly.  I  suppose  that  all  ambitious 
minds  are  in  the  same  predicament.  He  who  seeks  distinction  must 
be  sensible  of  disapprobation  exactly  in  the  same  proportion  as  he 
desires  applause.  And  now,  my  precious  cousin,  I  have  unfolded 
my  heart  to  you  in  this  particular  without  a  speck  of  dissimulation. 
Some  people,  and  good  people  too,  would  blame  me,  but  ycni  will 
not,  and  they  I  think  would  blame  without  just  cause.  We  cer- 
tainly do  not  honour  God  when  we  bur}',  or  when  we  neglect  to  im- 
prove as  far  as  we  may  whatever  talent  he  may  have  bestowed  on 
us,  whether  it  be  little  or  much.  In  natural  things,  as  well  as  in 
spiritual,  it  is  a  never-failing  truth,  that  to  him  who  hath,  that  is, 
to  him  who  occupies  what  he  hath  diligently,  and  so  as  to  increase 
it,  more  shall  be  given.  Set  me  down,  therefore,  my  dear,  for  an 
industrious  rhymer,  so  long  as  I  shall  have  the  ability ;  for  in  this 
only  way  is  it  possible  for  me,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  either  to  honour 
f  iod,  or  to  serve  man,  or  even  to  serve  myself. 

I  rejoice  to  hear  that  Mr.  Throckmorton  wishes  to  be  on  a  more 
intimate  footing.  I  am  shy,  and  suspect  that  he  is  not  very  much 
otherwise;  and  tlic  consequence  has  been,  that  we  have  mutually 
wished  an  acquaintance  without  i)cing  able  to  accomplish  it.  Bles- 
sings on  you  for  the  hint  that  you  dropt  on  the  subject  of  the  house 
at  \\'cston  ;  for  the  burthen  of  my  song  is,  since  we  ha\e  met  once 
pgain,  let  us  never  be  separated,  as  we  have  been,  more. 

W.  C. 


310  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

sc  yi  s^nidi  hnR^vcd^  s  fens  ^zids  to8l    Jevh  neo  ■ssftifef 

LETTER  LV. 
jir  rrriof  .^,,.To  Lady  HESKETH. 

,1--  0/«*i/,  May  IS,  1786i 

jnc  I  have  at  length,  my  cousin,  found  iny 

^way  into  my  summer  abode.  I  believe  that  I  described  it  to  you 
some  time  since,  and  will  therefore  now  leave  it  undescribed. .  -I 
will  only  say  that  I  am  writing  in  a  band-box,  situated,  at  least  in 
my  account,  delightfully,  because  it  has  a  window  in  one  side  th^ 
opens  into  that  orchard  through  which,  as  I  am  sitting  here,  I 
shall  see  you  often  pass,  and  which,  therefore,  I  already  prefer  to 
all  the  orchards  in  the  world.  You  do  well  to  prepare  me  for  all 
possible  delays,  because  in  this  life  all  sorts  of  disappointments 
are  possible,  and  I  shall  do  well,  if  any  such  delay  of  your  journey 
should  happen,  to  practise  that  lesson  of  patience  which  you  incul- 
cate. But  it  is  a  lesson  which,  even  with  you  for  my  teacher,  I 
shall  be  slow  to  learn.  Being  sure,  however,  that  you  will  not 
procrastinate  without  cause,  I  will  make  myself  as  easy  as  I  can 
about  it,  and  hope  the  best.  To  convince  you  how  much  I  am 
under  discipline  and  good  advice,  I  will  lay  aside  a  favourite  mea- 
sure, influenced  in  doing  so  by  nothing  but  the  good  sense  of  your 
contrary  opinion.  I  had  set  my  heart  on  meeting  you  at  Newport. 
In  my  haste  to  see  you  once  again,  I  was  willing  to  overlook  many 
ankwardnesses  I  could  not  but  foresee  would  attend  it.  I  put  them 
aside  so  long  as  I  only  foresaw  them  myself,  but  since  I  find  that 
you  foresee  them  too,  I  can  no  longer  deal  so  slightly  with  them. 
It  is  therefore  determined  that  we  meet  at  Olney.  Much  I  shall 
feel,  but  I  Avill  not  die  if  I  can  help  it,  and  I  beg  that  you  will 
take  all  possible  care  to  outlive  it  likewise,  for  I  know  what  it  is  to 
be  balked  iathe  moment  of  acquisition,  and  should  be  loth  to  know 
it  again,  .■* 

^i.  Last  Monday,  in  the  evening,  we  walked  to  Weston,  according 
to  OUT  usual  custom.  It  happened,  owing  to  a  mistake  of  time, 
that  we  set  out  half  an  hour  sooner  than  usual.  This  mistake  we 
:discovered  while  we  were  in  the  wilderness ;  so,  finding  that  we 
had  time  before  us,  as  they  say,  Mrs.  Unwin  proposed  that  \/t 
should  go  into  the  village,  and  take  a  view  of  the  house  tliat  I  had 
just  mentioned  to  you.  We  did  so,  and  found  it  such  a  one  as  in 
most  respects  would  suit  you  well.  But  Moses  Brovv^n,  our  vicar, 
who,  as  I  told  you,  is  in  his  eighty-sixth  year,  is  not  bound  t^ 
4ie  for  that  reason.  He  said  himself,  when  he  was  here  last  sum- 
iner,  that  he  should  live  ten  years  longer,  and  for  aught  that  ap« 
;pears,  so  he  may.  In  which  case,  for  the  sake  of  its  near  neigh 
bourhood  to  us,  the  vicarage  haa  charms  for  me  that  no  otlier 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  Ill 

^ace  can  rival.  But  this,  and  a  thousand  things  more,  shall  be 
talked  over  when  you  come. 

We  have  been  industriously  cultivating  our  acquaintance  with 
our  Weston  neighbours  since  I  wrote  last,  and  they,  on  their  part, 
have  been  equally  diligent  in  the  same  cause.  I  have  a  notioi> 
that  we  shaU  all  suit  well.  I  see  much  in  them  both  that  I  admire. 
You  know,  perhaps,  that  they  are  Catholics. 

It  is  a  delightful  bundle  of  praise,  my  cousin,  that  you  have 
seht  me:  all  jasmine  and  lavender.  Whoever  the  lady  is,  she 
has  evidently  an  admirable  pen,  and  a  cultivated  mind.  If  a  per- 
son reads,  it  is  no  matter  in  what  language ;  and  if  the  mind  be 
informed,  it  is  no  matter  whether  tliat  mind  belongs  to  a  man  or  a 
woman.  The  taste  and  the  judgment  will  receive  the  benefit  alike 
in  both. — Long  before  the  Task  was  published,  I  made  an  experi- 
ment one  day,  being  in  a  frolicksome  mood,  upon  my  fi'iend : 
We  were  walking  in  the  garden,  and  conversing  on  a  subject 
similar  to  these  lines : — 

"  -.    The  few  that  pray  at  all,  pray  oft  amiss, 

And  seeking  grace  t'  improve  the  present  good, 
Would  urge  a  wiser  suit  than  asking  more. 

J  repeated  them,  and  said  to  him  with  an  air  of  non-chalance^ 
-"  Do  you  recollect  those  lines  ?  I  have  seen  them  somewhere;- 
where  are  they?"  He  put  on  a  considering  face,  and  after  some 
deliberation  replied — "  Oh,  I  will  tell  you  where  they  must  be—' 
in  the  Night  Thoughts."  I  was  glad  my  trial  turned  out  so  well, 
and  did  not  undeceive  him.  I  mention  this  occurrence  only  in 
confirmation  of  the  letter-writer's  opinion ;  but,  at  the  same  time, 
I  do  assure  you,  on  the  faith  of  an  honest  man,  that  I  never  in  my 
"life  designed  an  imitation  of  Young,  or  of  any  other  writei*;  for 
mimicry  is  my  abhorrence,  at  least  in  poetry. 

Assure  yourself,  my  dearest  cousin,  that  both'  for  your  sake,- 
since  you  make  a  point  of  it,  and  for  my  own,  I  will  be  as  philo- 
sophically careftd  as  possible  that  these  fine  nerves  of  mine  shall 
not  be  beyond  measure  agitated  when  you  arrive.  In  truth,  there 
ife  much  greater  probability  that  they  will  be  benefited,  and  greatly 
too.  Joy  of  heart,  from  whatever  occasion  it  may  arise,  is  the 
best  of  all  nervous  medicines,  and  I  should  not  wonder  if  such  a 
turn  given  to  my  spirits,  should  have  even  a  lasting  effect,  of  the 
most  advantageous  kind,  upon  them.  You  must  not  imagine,  nei- 
ther, that  I  am,  on  the  whole,  in  any  great  degree,  subject  to 
nervous  affections  ;  occasionally  I  am,  and  have  been  these  many 
years  much  liable  to  dejection.  But  at  intervals,  and  sometimes 
for  *n  interval  of  weeks,  no  creature  would  suspect  it.     For  I 


312  LIFE  OF  COV^'PER. 

have  not  that  which  commonly  is  a  symptom  of  such  a  case  belong- 
ing to  me :  I  mean  extraordinary  elevation  in  the  absence  of  Mr. 
Blue-Devil.  When  I  am  in  the  best  health,  my  tide  of  animal 
i.prighthness  flows  with  great  equality,  so  that  I  am  never,  at  any 
time,  exalted  in  proportion  as  I  am.  sometimes  depressed.  My 
depression  has  a  cause,  and  if  that  cause  were  to  cease,  I  should 
be  as  clieerful  thenceforth,  and  pei-haps  for  ever,  as  any  man  neeS 
be.    But  as  I  have  often  said,  Mrs.  Unwrn  shall  be  my  expositor. 

Adieu,  my  beloved  cousin.  God  grant  that  our  friendship^ 
which,  while  Ave  could  see  each  other,  never  suffered  a  moment's 
intei-ruption,  and  which  so  long  a  separation  has  not  in  the  least 
abated,  ma}'  glow  in  us  to  our  last  horn*,  and  be  renewed  in  a  bet- 
ter world,  there  to  be  perpetuated  for  ever.  For  you  must  know 
that  I  should  not  love  you  half  so  well,  if  I  did  not  believe  you- 
would  be  my  friend  to  eternity.  There  is  not  room  enough  for 
friendship  to  unfold  itself  in  full  bloom,  in  such  a  nook  of  life  as 
this.     Therefore  I  am,  and  mu'-t,  and  will  be,  yoitrs  for  ever, 

W.C, 


LETTER  LVI. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

Olney,  May  29,  1786. 
Thou  dear,  comfortable  cousin,  vvhose 
letters,  among  all  that  I  receive,  have  this  property  peculiarly 
their  own,  that  I  expect  them  without  trembling,  and  never  find 
any  thing  in  them  that  does  not  give  me  pleasure !  for  which, 
therefore,  I  would  take  nothing  in  exchange  that  the  world  could 
give  me,  save  and  except  that  for  which  I  must  exchange  them 
soon,  (and  happy  shall  I  be  to  do  so)  your  own  company.  That, 
indeed,  is  delayed  a  little  too  long,  to  my  impatience,  at  least,  it 
seems  so,  who  find  the  spi'ing,  backward  as  it  is,  too  forward, 
because  many  of  its  beauties  will  have  faded  before  you  will  have 
an  opportunity  to  see  them.  We  took  our  customaiy  walk  yester- 
day in  the  wilderness  at  Weston,  and  saw,  with  regret,  the  la- 
burnums, syringas,  and  guelder-roses,  some  of  them  blown,  and 
others  just  upon  the  point  of  blowing,  and  could  not  help  observ- 
ing— all  these  will  be  gone  before  Lady  Hesketh  comes.  Still, 
Iiowever,  there  will  be  roses,  and  jasmine,  and  honey-suckle,  and 
shady  walks,  and  cool  alcoves,  and  you  will  partake  them  with" 
us.  But  I  want  you  to  have  a  share  of  every  thing  that  is  de- 
lightful here,  and  cannot  bear  that  the  advance  of  the  season^ 
sliould  steal  away  a  single  pleasure  before  you  can  come  to  en- 
joy it. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  113 

Every  day  I  think  of  you,  and  almost  all  the  day  long  ;  I  will 
venture  to  say  that  even  you  were  never  so  expected  in  your  life. 
I  called  last  week  at  the  Quaker's  to  see  the  furniture  of  your  bed, 
the  fame  of  which  had  reached  me.  It  is,  I  assure  you,  superb, 
of  printed  cotton,  and  the  subject  classical.  Every  morning  you 
will  open  your  eyes  on  Phxton  kneeling  to  Apollo,  and  imploring 
his  father  to  grant  him  the  conduct  of  his  chariot  for  a  day.  May 
your  sleep  be  as  sound  as  your  bed  will  be  sumptuous,  and  your 
nights,  at  least,  will  be  well  provided  for. 

I  shall  send  up  the  sixth  and  seventh  books  of  the  Iliad  shortly, 
and  shall  address  them  to  you.  You  will  forward  them  to  the  Ge- 
neral. I  long  to  show  you  my  workshop,  and  to  see  you  sitting  on 
the  opposite  side  of  my  table.  We  shall  be  as  close  packed  as  two 
wax  figures  in  an  old-fashioned  picture-frame*  I  am  writing  in  it 
now.  It  is  the  place  in  which  I  fabricate  all  my  verse  in  summer 
time.  I  rose  an  hour  sooner  than  usual  this  morning,  that  I  might 
finish  my  sheet  before  breakfast,  for  I  must  write  this  day  to  the 
General. 

The  grass  under  my  windows  is  all  bespangled  with  dew-drops, 
and  the  birds  are  singing  in  the  apple-trees  among  the  blossoms* 
Never  poet  had  a  more  commodious  oratory  in  which  to  invoke 
his  muse; 

I  have  made  your  heart  ache  too  often,  my  poor  dear  cousin, 
with  talking  about  my  fits  of  dejection.  Something  has  happened 
that  has  led  me  to  the  subject,  or  I  would  have  mentioned  thein 
more  sparingly.  Do  not  suppose  or  suspect  that  I  treat  you  with 
reserve ;  there  is  nothing  in  which  I  am  concerned  that  you  shall 
not  be  made  acquainted  with.  But  the  tale  is  too  long  for  a  letter. 
I  will  only  add  for  your  present  satisfaction,  that  the  cause  is  not 
exterior,  that  it  is  not  within  the  reach  of  human  aid,  and  that  yet 
I  have  a  hope  myself,  and  Mrs.  Unwin  a  strong  persuasion,  of  its 
removal.  I  am  indeed  even  now,  and  have  been  for  a  considerable 
time,  sensible  of  a  change  for  the  better,  and  expect  with  good! 
reason,  a  comfortable  lift  from  you.  Guess,  then,  my  beloved 
cousin,  with  what  wishes  I  look  forward  to  the  time  of  your  arri- 
val, from  whose  coming  I  promise  myself  not  only  pleasure,  but 
peace  of  mind,  at  least  an  additional  share  of  it.  At  present  it  is 
an  uncertain  and  transient  guest  with  me,  but  the  joy  with  which 
I  shall  see  and  converse  with  jou  at  Ohiey  may,  perhaps,  make  it 
an  abiding  one. 

w.  c. 


VOL.  I.  C^ 


114  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 


LETTER  LVIL 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

Olney^  June  4  b'  5,  l/Se.- 
Ah !  my  cousin,  yon  begin  already  to  fear 
and  quake.  What  a  hero  am  I,  compared  with  you  !  I  have  no 
fears  of  you :  on  the  contrary,  am  as  bold  as  a  lion.  I  wish  that 
your  carriage  were  even  now  at  the  door:  you  should  soon  see 
with  how  much  courage  I  would  face  you.  But  what  cause  have 
you  for  fear  ?  Am  I  not  your  cousin,  with  whom  you  have  wandered 
in  the  fields  of  Freemantle,  and  at  Bevis's  Mount?  Who  used  to 
read  to  you,  to  laugh  with  you,  till  our  sides  have  ached,  at  any 
thing,  or  nothing?  And  am  I,  in  these  respects,  at  all  altered? 
You  will  not  find  me  so,  but  just  as  ready  to  laugh  and  to  wander 
as  you  ever  knew  me.  A  cloud,  perhaps,  may  come  over  ms 
now  and  then  for  a  few  hours,  but  from  clouds  I  was  never  ex- 
empted. And  are  not  you  the  identical  cousin  with  whom  I  have 
performed  all  these  feats  ?  The  very  Harriet  whom  I  saw,  for  the 
first  time,  at  De  Grey's,  in  Norfolk-street?  (It  was  on  a  Sunday, 
when  you  came  with  my  uncle  and  aunt  to  drink  tea  there,  and  I 
had  dined  there,  and  was  just  goii^g  back  to  Westminster.)  If 
these  things  are  so,  and  I  am  sure  that  you  cannot  gainsay  a  syl- 
lable of  them  all,  tlien  this  consequence  follows ;  that  I  do  not  pro- 
mise myself  more  pleasure  from  your  company  than  I  shall  be  sure 
to  find.  Then  you  are  my  cousin,  in  whom  I  always  delighted, 
and  in  whom  I  doubt  not  that  I  shall  delight,  even  to  my  latest 
hour.  But  this  wicked  coach-maker  has  sunk  my  spirits.  What 
a  miserable  thing  it  is  to  depend,  in  any  degree,  for  the  accom- 
plishment of  a  wish,  and  that  wish  so  fervent,  on  the  punctuality 
of  a  ci'eature  who,  I  suppose,  was  never  punctual  in  his  life  I 
Da  tell  him,  my  dear,  in  order  to  quicken  him,  that  if  he  per- 
fbtms  his  promise  he  shall  make  my  coach  when  I  want  one,  and 
that  if  he  perform.s  it  not,  I  will  most  assuredly  employ  some 
other  man. 

The  Throckmoi-tons  sent  a  note  to  invite  us  to  dinner — we 
went,  and  a  very  agi'eeable  day  we  had.  They  made  no  fuss  with 
us,  which  I  was  heartily  glad  to  see,  for  where  I  give  trouble  I  am 
sure  that  I  cannot  be  welcome.  Themselves,  and  their  chaplain^ 
and  we,  were  all  the  party.  After  dinner  we  had  much  cheerful 
and  pleasant  talk,  the  particulars  of  which  might  not,  perhaps, 
be  so  entertaining  upon  paper ;  therefore,  all  but  one  I  will  omit, 
and  that  I  will  mention  only  because  it  will  of  itself  be  sufficient 
to  give  you  an  insight  into  their  opinion  on  a  very  important  sub- 
ject— their  own  religion.     I  happened  to  say,  that  in  all  profes» 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  115 

sjons  and  trades  mankind  affected  an  air  of  mysterj\    Physicians,  I 
observed,  in  particular,  were  objects  of  that  remark,  who  persist 
in  prescribing  in  Latin,  many  times,  no  doubt,  to  the  hazard  of 
a  patient's   life,  through  the  ignorance  of  an  apothecary.     Mr. 
Throckmorton  assented  to  what  I  said,  and  turning  to  his  chap- 
lain, to  my  infinite  surprize,  observed  to  him,  "  That  is  Just  as 
absurd  as  our  praying  in  Latin,"     I  could  have  hugged  him  for 
his  liberality  and  freedom  from  bigotry,  but  thought  it  rather  more 
decent  to  let  the  matter  pass  without  any  visible  notice.     I  there- 
fore heard  it  with  pleasure,  and  kept  my  pleasure  to  myself.    The 
two  ladies,  in  the  mean  time,  were  tete-a-tete  in  the  drawing-room. 
Their  conversation   turned  principally  (as  I  afterwards  learned 
from  Mrs.  Unwin)  on  a  most  delightful  topic,  viz.  myself.     In  the 
first  place,  Mrs.  Throckmorton  admired  my  book,  from  which  she 
quoted  by  heart  more  than  I  could  repeat,  though  I  so  lately  wrote 
it.     In  short,  my  dear,  I  cannot  proceed  to  relate  what  she  said 
of  the  book,  and  the  book's  author,  for  that  abominable  modesty 
that  I  cannot  even  yet  get  rid  of.     Let  it  suffice  to  say,  that  you^ 
who  are  disposed  to  love  every  body  who  speaks  kindly  of  your 
cousin,  will  certainly  love  Mrs.  Throckmorton,  when  you  shall  be 
told  what  she  said  of  him,  and  that  you  ivill  be  told  is  equallj^  cer- 
tain, because  it  depends  on  Mrs.  Unwin.     It  is  a  very  convenient 
thing  to   have  a  Mrs.  Unwin,  who  will  tell  you  many  a  good 
and  long  story  for  me,  that  I  am  not  able  to  tell  for  myself.    I  am, 
however,  not  at  all  in  arrears  to  my  neighbours  in  the  matter  of 
admiration  and  esteem,  but  the  more  I  know,  the  more  I  like 
them,  and  have  nearly  an  aflFection  for  them  both.     I  am  delighted 
that  the  Task  has  so  large  a  share  of  the  approbation  of  your 
sensible  Suffolk  friend. 

I  received  yesterday,  from  the  General,  another  letter  of  T.  S. 
an  unknown  auxiliary  having  started  up  in  my  behalf.  I  believe 
I  shall  leave  the  business  of  answering  to  him,  having  no  leisure 
myself  for  conti-oversy.  He  lies  veiy  open  to  a  very  effectual 
reply. 

My  dearest  cousin,  adieu!  I  hope  to  write  to  you  but  once 
more  before  we  meet.  But  Oh !  this  coach-maker,  and  Oh !  this 
holiday  week  J 

Yours,  with  impatient  desire  to  see  you, 

vv.  c. 


116  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

LETTER  LVIII. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esquire. 

Olney-,  June  9,  l^Se, 
My  dear  Friend, 

The  little  time  that  I  can  devote  to  any 
other  purpose  than  that  of  poetry  is,  as  you  may  suppose,  stolen. 
Homer  is  urgent.  Much  is  done,  but  much  rem  ains  undone,  and 
no  school-boy  is  more  attentive  to  the  performance  of  his  daily  task 
than  I  am.  You  will  therefore  excuse  me,  if  at  present  I  am  both 
linfrequent  and  short. 

The  paper  tells  me  that  the  Chancellor  has  relapsed,  and  I  am 
truly  sorry  to  hear  it.  The  first  attack  was  dangerous,  but  a  se- 
cond must  be  more  formidable  still.  It  is  not  probable  that  I  should 
ever  hear  from  him  again,  if  he  survive;  yet,  of  the  much  that  I 
should  have  felt  for  him,  had  our  connection  never  been  inter^ 
rupted,  I  still  feel  much.  Every  body  will  feel  the  loss  of  a  man 
whose  abilities  have  made  him  of  such  general  importance. 

I  correspond  again  with  Col  man,  and  upon  the  most  friendly 
footing,  and  find  in  his  instance,  and  in  some  others,  that  an  inti- 
mate intercourse  which  has  been  only  casually  suspended,  not  for- 
feited on  either  side  by  outrage,  is  capable  not  only  of  revival,  but 
improvement. 

I  had  a  letter  some  time  since  that  gave  me  great  pleasure,  from 
your  sister  Fanny.  Such  notices  from  old  friends  are  always  plea- 
sant, and  of  such  pleasures  I  have  received  many  lately.  They 
refresh  the  remembrance  of  early  days,  and  make  me  young  again. 
The  noble  institution  of  the  Nonsense  Club  will  be  forgotten  when 
■we  are  gone,  who  composed  it ;  but  I  often  think  of  your  most  he- 
roic line,  written  at  one  of  our  meetings,  and  especially  think  of 
it  when  I  am  translating  Homer — 

"  To  whom  replied  the  Dgvil  yard-Ion g-tail'd." 

There  never  was  any  thing  more  truly  Grecian  than  that  triple 
epithet,  and  were  it  possible  to  introduce  it  into  cither  Iliad  or 
Odyssey,  I  should  certainly  steal  it. 

I  am  now  flushed  with  expectation  of  Lady  Hesketh,  who  spends 
the  summer  with  us.  We  hope  to  see  her  next  week.  We  have 
found  admirable  lodgings  both  for  her  and  her  suite,  and  a  Quaker 
in  this  town,  still  more  admirable  than  they,  who,  as  if  he  lovecl 
her  as  much  as  I  do,  furnishes  them  for  her  with  real  elegance. 

W.  C, 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  117 

LETTER  LIX. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,   Esquire. 

Ohiey,  June  9,  1^86. 

My  dear  cousin's  arrival  has,  as  it  could 

not  fail  to  do,  made  us  happier  than  we  ever  were  at  Ohiey.     Her 

great  kindness  in  giving  us  lier  company  is  a  cordial  that  I  shall 

feel  the  effect  of,  not  only  while  she  is  here,  but  while  I  live. 

Olney  will  not  be  much  longer  the  place  of  our  habitation.  At 
a  village,  two  miles  distant,  we  have  hired  a  house  of  Mr.  Throck- 
morton, a  much  better  than  we  occupy  at  present,  and  yet  not 
more  expensive.  It  is  situated  very  near  to  our  most  agreeable 
landlord,  and  his  agreeable  pleasure  grounds.  In  him,  and  in  his 
wife,  we  shall  find  such  companions  as  will  always  make  the  time 
pass  pleasantly  while  they  are  in  the  country,  and  his  grounds 
will  afford  us  good  air,  and  good  walking  room  in  the  winter;  two 
advantages  which  we  have  not  enjoyed  at  Olney,  where  I  have  no 
neighbour  with  whom  I  can*  converse,  and  where,  seven  months 
in  tlie  year,  I  have  been  imprisoned  by  dirty  and  impassable  ways, 
till  both  my  health  and  Mrs.  Unwin's  have  suffered  materially. 

Homer  is  ever  importunate,  and  will  not  suffer  me  to  spend  half 
the  time  with  my  distant  friends  that  I  would  gladly  give  them. 

W.  C- 


LETTER  LX. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esquire. 

Olney,  Oct.  6,  ir86. 

You  have  not  heard,  I  suppose,  that  the 
iiinth  book  of  my  translation  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  Thames.  But 
it  is  even  so.  A  storm  overtook  it  in  its  way  to  Kingston,  and  it 
simk,  togetlier  with  the  whole  cargo  of  the  boat  in  which  it  was  a 
passenger.  Not  figuratively  foreshowing,  I  hope,  by  its  submer- 
sion, the  fate  of  all  the  rest.  My  kind  and  generous  cousin,  who 
leaves  nothing  undone  that  she  thinks  can  conduce  to  my  comfort, 
encouragement,  or  convenience,  is  my  transcriber  also.  S/ie  wrote 
the  copy,  and  she  will  have  to  write  it  again — Hers,  therefore,  is 
the  damage.  I  have  a  thousand  reasons  to  lament  that  the  time 
approaches  when  we  must  lose  her.  She  has  made  a  winterly 
summer  a  most  delightful  one,  but  the  winter  itself  we  must  spend 
without  her. 

W.  C. 


318  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

The  letters  which  I  have  just  imparted  to  my  reader  exhibit  a 
picture  so  minute  and  so  admirable,  of  the  life,  the  studies,  and 
the  affections  of  Cowper,  during  the  period  to  which  they  relate, 
that  they  require  no  comment  fi'om  his  biographer.  They  must 
render  all  who  read  them  intimately  acquainted  with  the  writer, 
and  the  result  of  such  intimacy  must  be,  what  it  is  at  once  my 
duty  and  my  delight  to  promote,  an  increase  of  public  affection 
for  his  enchanting  character,  an  effect  which  all  his  posthumous 
compositions  are  excellently  suited  to  exten  d  and  confirm. 

It  is  now  incumbent  on  me  to  relate  the  consequences  of  a  visit, 
so  fondly  expected  by  the  poet,  and  happily  productive  of  a  change 
in  his  local  situation. 

It  does  not  always  happen,  when  the  heart  and  fancy  have  in- 
dulged themselves  with  such  fervency  in  a  prospect  of  delight, 
from  the  renewed  society  of  a  long  absent  friend,  it  does  not  al- 
ways happen,  that  the  pleasure,  on  its  arrival,  proves  exactly 
what  it  promised  to  be  on  its  approach.  But  in  the  present  case, 
to  the  honour  of  the  two  friends  concerned,  the  delightful  vision 
was  followed  by  a  reality  of  delight.  Cowper  was  truly  happy  in 
receiving  and  settling  his  beloved,  though  long  unseen  relation,  as 
his  neighbour:  she  was  comfortably  lodged  in  the  vicarage  of 
Olney,  a  mansion  so  near  to  his  residence,  and  so  commodious 
from  the  private  communication  between  their  two  houses,  that 
the  long  separated  and  most  seasonably  re-united  friends  here 
enjoyed  all  the  easy  intercourse  of  a  domestic  union. 

Cowper  derived  from  this  foitunate  event  not  only  the  advan- 
tage of  daily  conversation  with  another  cultivated  mind,  in  affec- 
tionate unison  with  his  own,  but,  as  his  new  neighbour  had 
brought  her  carriage  and  horses  to  Olney,  he  was  gradually 
tempted  to  survey,  in  a  wider  range,  the  face  of  a  country  that 
he  loved,  and  to  mix  a  little  more  with  its  most  worthy  inhabit- 
ants. His  life  had  been  so  retired  at  Olney  that  he  had  not  even 
extended  his  excursions  to  the  neighbouring  town  of  Newport-Pag- 
nell,  in  the  course  of  many  j  ears ;  but  the  convenience  of  a  car- 
riage induced  him,  in  August,  to  visit  Mr.  Bull,  who  resided  there  ; 
the  friend  to  whose  assiduous  attention  he  had  felt  himself  much 
obliged  in  a  season  of  mental  depression.  A  few  letters  of  Cowper 
to  this  gentleman  are  so  expressive  of  cordial  esteem,  and  so  agree- 
ably illustrate  the  character  of  each,  that  I  shall  take  this  oppor- 
tunity of  making  a  short  selection  from  the  private  papers,  of 
which  the  kindness  of  the  person  to  whom  they  are  addressed 
has  enabled  me  to  avail  myself.  When  Cowper  published  the  first 
volume  of  his  poems,  Mr.  Bull  wrote  to  him  on  the  occasion. 
The  answer  of  the  poet,  March  24, 1782,  I  reserve  for  a  future 


LIFE  OF  COWTER.  119 

part  of  mywork.    A  subsequent  letter,  dated  October  2rth,  in  the 
same  year,  opens  with  this  lively  paragraph  :— 

"  Mon  aimable  and  tres  cher  Ami, 

"  It  is  not  in  the  power  of  chaises,  or  cha- 
riots, to  carry  you  where  my  affections  will  not  follow  you:  if  I 
heard  that  you  were  gone  to  finish  your  days  in  the  moon,  I  should 
not  love  you  the  less ;  but  should  contemplate  the  place  of  your 
abode  as  often  as  it  appeared  in  the  Heavens,  and  say,  Farewell, 
my  fi-iend,  for  ever !  Lost,  but  not  forgotten  !  Live  happy  in  thy 
lantern,  and  smoke  the  remainder  of  thy  pipes  in  peace !  Thou  art 
rid  of  earth,  at  least  of  all  its  cares,  and  so  far  can  I  rejoice  in  thy 
i-emoval ;  and  as  to  the  cares  that  are  to  be  found  in  the  moon,  I 
am  resolved  to  suppose  them  lighter  than  those  below — heavier 
they  can  hai'dly  be." 

The  letter  closes  with  a  sentence  that  ascertains  the  date  of  those 
translations  from  the  poetry  of  Madame  Guion  which  I  have  already 
mentioned,  as  executed  at  the  request  of  Mr.  Bull.  "  Madame 
Guion  is  finished,  but  not  quite  transcribed."  In  a  subsequent 
letter  he  speaks  of  these  and  of  other  poems.  I  transcribe  the 
passage,  and  a  preceding  paragraph,  in  which  he  expatiates  on 
thunder  storms  with  the  feelings  of  a  poet,  and  with  his  usual  feli- 
city of  expression.  "  I  was  always  an  admirer  of  thunder  storms, 
even  before  I  knew  whose  voice  I  lieard  in  them  ;  but  especially 
an  admirer  of  thunder  i-olling  over  the  great  waters.  Tliere  is 
something  singularly  majestic  in  the  sound  of  it  at  sea,  where  the 
eye  and  the  ear  have  uninterrupted  opportunity  of  observation,  and 
the  concavity  above  being  made  spacious,  reflects  it  with  more  ad- 
vantage. I  have  consequently  envied  you  your  situation,  and  the 
enjoyment  of  those  refreshing  breezes  tliat  belong  to  it.  We  have, 
nideed,  been  regaled  with  some  of  these  bursts  of  xtherial  music. 
The  peals  have  been  as  loud,  by  the  report  of  a  gentleman  who 
lived  many  years  in  the  West-Indies,  as  were  ever  heard  in  those 
islands,  and  the  flashes  as  splendid;  but  when  the  thunder  preaches, 
an  horizon  bounded  by  the  ocean  is  the  only  sounding-board." 

"  I  have  had  but  little  leisure,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  and  that 
little  I  devoted  for  a  month  after  your  departure  to  Madame  Guion. 
I  have  made  fair  copies  of  all  the  pieces  I  have  produced  on  this 
last  occasion,  and  Avill  put  them  into  your  hands  when  we  meet. 
They  are  yours,  to  serve  you  as  you  please :  you  may  take  and 
leave  as  you  like,  for  my  purpose  is  already  served  ;  they  have 
amused  me,  and  I  have  no  further  demand  upon  them:  The  lines 
upon  Friendship,  however,  which  were  not  sufficiently  of  a  piece 


120  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

with  the  others,  will  not  now  be  wanted.  I  have  some  other  littl© 
things,  which  I  will  communicate,  when  time  shall  serve ;  but  I 
cannot  now  transcribe  them." 

What  the  author  here  modestly  calls  "  The  Lines  on  Friend- 
ship," I  regard  as  one  of  the  most  admirable  among  his  minor 
poems.  Mr.  Bull,  who  has  been  induced  to  print  the  translations 
from  Madame  Guion,  by  an  apprehension  of  their  being  surrepti- 
tiously and  inaccurately  published,  has  inserted  these  stanzas  on 
Friendship,  in  the  little  volume  that  he  has  recently  imparted  to 
the  public  from  the  press  of  Newport-Pagnell ;  but  as  the  poem  is 
singularly  beautiful,  and  seems  to  have  been  re-touched  by  its  au- 
thor, with  an  attention  proportioned  to  its  merit,  I  shall  introduce 
it  here  in  a  corrected  state,  and  notice  such  variations  as  I  find  in 
the  two  copies  before  me. 


ON  FRIENDSHIP. 

Amicitia  nisi  inter  bonos  esse  non  potest.     Cicxro, 
1. 
What  virtue  can  we  name,  or  grace. 
But  men  unqualified  and  base 

Will  boast  it  their  possession  ? 
Profusion  apes  the  noble  part 
Of  liberality  of  heart, 

And  dulness  of  discretion^ 
2. 
But  as  the  gem  of  richest  cost 
Is  ever  counterfeited  most ; 

So  always  imitation 
Employs  the  utmost  skill  she  can 
To  counterfeit  the  faithful  man, 

The  friend  of  long  duration. 


VARIATIONS. 

I. — 1.  What  virtue,  or  what  mental  grace, 

II. —  If  ev'ry  polish'd  gem  we  find,     . 
Illuminating  heart  or  mind, 

Provoke  to  imitation, 
No  wonder  friendship  does  the  same. 
That  jewel  of  the  purest  flame> 
Or  r.ither  constellation. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  121 


3. 
Some  will  pronounce  me  too  severe, 
But  long  experience  speaks  me  clear, 

Therefore,  that  censure  scorning, 
I  will  proceed  to  mark  the  shelves 
On  which  so  many  dash  themselves, 

And  give  the  simple  warning. 
4. 
Youth,  unadmonish'd  by  a  guide, 
Will  trust  to  any  fair  outside — 

An  eri'or  soon  corrected! 
For  who  but  learns,  with  riper  years. 
That  man,  when  smoothest  he  appears, 

Is  most  to  be  suspected  ? 
5. 
But  here  again  a  danger  lies ; 
Lest,  thus  deluded  by  our  eyes, 

And  taking  trash  for  treasure. 
We  should,  when  undeceiv'd,  conclude 
Friendship  imaginary  good, 

A  mere  Utopian  pleasure. 
6. 
An  acquisition  rather  rare 
Is  yet  no  subject  of  despair : 

Nor  should  it  seem  distressful, 
If  either  on  forbidden  ground, 
Or  where  it  was  not  to  be  found, 

We  sought  it  unsuccessful. 


VARIATIONS. 

III. — No  knave,  but  boldly  will  pretend 
The  requisites  that  form  a  friend, 

A  real  and  a  sound  one ; 
Nor  any  fool  he  would  deceive. 
But  prove  as  ready  to  believe, 

And  dream  that  he  has  found  one, 

IV. — 1.  Candid,  and  generous,  and  just, 

2.  Boys  care  but  little  whom  they  trust. 

V. — 2.  Lest,  having  misemploy'd  our  eyes, 

4.  We  sliould  unwarily  conclude 

5.  Friendship  a  false  ideal  good. 

VI. — 3.  Nor  is  it  wise  complaining, 
6.  We  sought  without  attaining. 
VOL.  I,  R 


122  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

r. 

No  friendship  will  abide  the  test 
That  stands  on  sordid  interest 

And  mean  self-love  erected ; 
Nor  such,  as  may  awhile  subsist 
'Twixt  sensualist  and  sensualist, 

For  vicious  ends  connected. 
8. 
Who  hopes  a  friend,  should  have  a  heart 
Himself,  well  furnish'd  for  the  part, 

And  ready,  on  occasion, 
To  show  the  virtue  that  he  seeks; 
For  'tis  an  union  that  bespeaks 

A  just  reciprocation. 
9. 
A  fretful  temper  will  divide 
The  closest  knot  that  may  be  tied, 

By  ceaseless  sharp  corrosion : 
A  temper  passionate  and  fierce 
May  suddenly  your  joys  disperse 

At  one  immense  explosion. 


VARIATIONS. 

VII. — 5.  Between  the  sot  and  sensualist, 

VIII. — Who  seeks  a  friend,  should  come  dispos'd 
T'  exhibit,  in  full  bloom  disclos'd. 

The  graces  and  the  beauties 
That  form  the  character  he  seeks. 
For  'tis  an  union  that  bespeaks 

Reciprocated  duties. 

Mutual  attention  is  implied. 
And  equal  truth  on  either  side. 

And  constantly  supported : 
'Tis  senseless  arrogance  t'  accuse 
Another  of  sinister  views. 

Our  own  as  much  distorted. 

But  will  sincerity  suiEce  ? 

It  is,  indeed,  above  all  price. 

And  must  be  made  the  basis  ; 
But  ev'ry  virtue  of  the  soul 
Must  constitute  the  charming  wholcj 

All  shiiiing  'm  tUeir  pUces. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  423 

10. 
In  vain  the  talkative  unite 
With  hope  of  permanent  delight: 

The  secret  just  committed 
They  drop,  through  mere  desire  to  prate, 
Forgetting  its  important  weight, 
And  by  themselves  outwitted. 
11. 
How  bright  soe'er  the  prospect  seems, 
All  thoughts  of  friendship  are  but  dreams, 

If  envy  chance  to  creep  in. 
An  envious  man,  if  you  succeed, 
May  prove  a  dang'rous  foe  indeed. 
But  not  a  friend  worth  keeping. 
12. 
As  envy  pines  at  good  possess'd, 
So  jealousy  looks  forth  distress'd, 

On  good  that  seems  approaching; 
And,  if  success  his  steps  attend, 
Discerns  a  rival  in  a  friend, 

And  hates  him  for  encroaching. 
13. 
Hence  authors  of  illustrious  name, 
Unless  belied  by  common  fame, 

Are  sadly  prone  to  quarrel  I 
To  deem  the  wit  a  friend  displays 
So  much  of  loss  to  their  own  praise, 
And  pluck  each  other's  laurel. 
14. 
A  man,  renown'd  for  repartee, 
Will  seldom  scruple  to  make  free 

With  friendship's  finest  feeling; 
Will  thrust  a  dagger  at  your  breast. 
And  tell  you,  'twas  a  special  jest, 
By  way  of  balm  for  healing, 
15. 
Beware  of  tattlers !  keep  your  ear 
Close  stopt  against  the  tales  they  bear, 
Fruits  of  their  own  invention  ! 


VARIATIONS. 

XIV.— 5.  And  say  he  wounded  you  in  jest. 


124  LIFE  OF  COWPEai. 

The  separation  of  chief  friends 
Is  what  their  kindness  most  intends; 
Their  sport  is  your  dissension. 
16. 
Friendship,  that  wantonly  admits 
A  joco-serious  play  of  wits 

In  brilliant  altercation, 
Is  union  such  as  indicates, 
Like  hand-in -hand  insurance  plates, 

Danger  of  conflagration. 
17. 
Some  fickle  creatures  boast  a  soul 
True  as  the  needle  to  the  pole  ; 

Yet  shifting  like  the  weather. 
The  needle's  constancy  forego 
For  any  novelty,  and  show 

Its  variations  rather. 
18. 
Insensibility  makes  some; 
Unseasonably  deaf  and  dumb, 

When  most  you  need  their  pity. 
'Tis  waiting  tiU  the  tears  shall  fall 
From  Gog  and  Magog  in  Guildhall, 

Those  playthings  of  the  city.* 


VARIATIONS. 

XV. — Who  keeps  an  open  ear 

For  tattlers,  will  be  sure  to  hear 

The  trumpet  of  invention. 
Aspersion  is  the  babbler's  trade. 
To  listen  is  to  lend  him  aid, 

And  rush  into  contention. 

XVI. — 1.    A  friendship,  that  in  frequent  fits 
Of  controversial  rage  emits 
The  sparks  of  disputation. 

XVII. — 3.  Their  humour  yet  so  various, 

They  manifest  their  whole  life  tlu-ough 
The  needle's  deviation  too ; 
Their  love  is  so  precarious. 


*  Tl:us  was  written  before  the  removal  of  theia, 


LIFE  OF  COWTER.  133 


19. 
The  great  and  small  but  rarely  meet 
On  terms  of  amity  complete. 

Th'  attempt  would  scarce  be  madder, 
Should  any,  from  the  bottom,  hope 
At  one  huge  stride  to  reach  the  top 

Of  an  erected  ladder. 
20. 
Courtier  and  patriot  cannot  mix 
Their  het'rogeneous  politics 

Without  an  effervescence, 
Such  as  of  salts  with  lemon-juice, 
But  which  is  rarely  knoAvn  t'  indue©, 

Like  that,  a  coalescence. 
21. 
Religion  should  extinguish  strife, 
And  make  a  calm  of  human  life. 

But  even  those  who  diflfer 
Only  on  topics  left  at  large, 
How  fiercely  will  they  meet  and  charge  I 

No  combatants  are  stifFer. 
22. 
To  prove,  alas  !  my  main  intent, 
Needs  no  great  cost  of  argument, 

No  cutting  and  contriving. 

VARIATIONS. 
XIX. — 3.  Plebeians  must  surrender, 

And  yield  so  much  to  noble  folk, 

It  is  combining  fire  with  smoke, 

Obscurity  with  splendour. 

Some  are  so  placid  and  serene 
(As  Irish  bogs  are  always  green), 

They  sleep  secure  from  waking, 
And  are,  indeed,  a  bog  that  bears 
Your  unparticipated  cares 

Unmov'd,  and  without  quaking. 

XX. — 4.  Like  that  of  salts  with  lemon-juice, 
Which  does  not  yet  like  that  produce 
A  friendly  coalescence. 

XXI. — 4.    On  points  which  God  has  left  at  large. 
XXII. — 1.  To  prove  at  last  my  main  intent 
Needs  no  expense  of  argument. 


l^e  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

Seeking  a  real  friend,  we  seem 

T'  adopt  the  chemist's  golden  dream, 

With  still  less  hope  of  thriving. 
23. 
Then  judge,  before  you  choose  your  man. 
As  circumspectly  as  you  can ; 

And,  having  made  election, 
See  that  no  disrespect  of  yours, 
Such  as  a  friend  but  ill  endures, 
Enfeeble  his  affection. 

24. 
It  is  not  timber,  lead  and  stone, 
An  architect  requires  alone 

To  finish  a  great  building ; 
The  palace  were  but  half  complete, 
Could  he  by  any  chance  forget 

The  carving  and  the  gilding. 
25. 
As  similarity  of  mind, 
Or  something  not  to  be  defin'd, 

First  rivets  our  attention ; 


VARIATIONS. 

Sometimes  the  fault  is  all  your  own, 
Some  blemish  in  due  time  made  known 

By  trespass  or  omission  : 
Sometimes  occasion  brings  to  light 
Our  friend's  defect,  long  hid  from  sight. 

And  even  from  suspicion. 

XXIII. — 1.  Then  judge  yourself,  and  prove  your  man, 

4.  Beware  no  negligence  of  yours. 

That  secrets  are  a  sacred  trust. 

That  friends  should  be  sincere  and  just. 

That  constancy  befits  them. 
Are  observations  on  the  case. 
That  savour  much  of  common-place, 

And  all  the  world  admits  them. 

XXIV. — 1.  But  'tis  not  timber,  lead  and  stone. 
3.  To  finish  a  fine  building. 

5.  If  he  could  possibly  forget; 

XXV. — 3.  First  fixes  our  attention. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  123^ 

So  manners  decent  and  polite, 

The  same  we  practis'd  at  first  sight, 

Must  save  it  from  declension. 
26. 
The  man  who  hails  you  Tom  or  Jack, 
And  proves,  by  thumpmg  on  your  back, 

His  sense  of  your  great  merit, 
Is  such  a  friend  that  one  had  need 
Be  very  much  his  friend  indeed. 

To  pardon  or  to  bear  it. 
27. 
Some  friends  make  this  their  pi'udent  plan- 
Say  little,  and  hear  all  you  can — 

Safe  policy,  but  hateful ! 
So  barren  sands  imbibe  the  show'r, 
But  render  neither  fruit  nor  flow'r — 

Unpleasant  and  ungrateful. 
28. 
They  whisper  trivial  things,  and  small; 
But  to  communicate  at  all 

Things  serious,  deem  improper. 
Their  feculence  and  froth  they  show, 
But  keep  their  best  contents  below. 

Just  like  a  simm'ring  copper. 
29. 
These  samples  (for,  alas!  at  last 
These  are  but  samples,  and  a  taste 
Of  evils  yet  unmention'd) 


VARIATIONS. 

XXVI. — 1.  The  man  that  hails  you  Tom  or  Jack, 

And  proves,  by  thumps  upon  your  back. 
How  he  esteems  your  merit. 

XXVII. — 1.  Some  act  upon  this  prudent  plan. 

XXVIII. — The  man  I  trust,  if  shy  to  me. 
Shall  find  me  as  reserv'd  as  he : 
No  subterfuge  or  pleading 
Shall  win  my  confidence  again; 
1  will  by  no  means  entertain 
A  spy  on  my  proceeding. 

XXIX.— Pursue  the  search,  and  you  will  find 

Good  sense  ^ud  knowledge  of  nwnkind. 


128  LIFE  OF  COWPER, 

May  prove  the  task  a  task  indeed, 
In  which  'tis  much  if  we  succeed, 

However  well  intention'd. 
30. 
Pursue  the  theme,  and  you  shall  find 
A  disciplin'd  and  furnish'd  mind 

To  be  at  least  expedient ; 
And,  after  summing  all  the  vest, 
Religion  ruling  in  the  breast 

A  principal  ingredient. 
31. 
True  friendship  has,  in  short,  a  grace 
More  than  terrestrial  in  its  face, 

That  proves  it  Heaven-descended. 
Man's  love  of  woman  not  so  pure, 
Nor  when  sincerest,  so  secure, 

To  last  till  life  is  ended. 

VARIATIONS. 

The  noblest  friendship  ever  shown 
The  Saviour's  history  makes  known, 

Though  some  have  turn'd  and  turn'd  it, 
And,  whether  being  craz'd  or  blind. 
Or  seeking  with  a  bias'd  mind, 

Have  not,  it  seems,  discem'd  it. 

O  friendship,  if  my  soul  forego 
Thy  dear  delights  while  here  below. 

To  mortify  and  grieve  me, 
May  I  myself  at  last  appear 
Unworthy,  base,  and  insincere. 

Or  may  my  friend  deceive  me  I 


This  sprightly  little  poem  contains  the  essence  of  all  that  has 
been  said  on  this  interesting  subject,  by  the  best  writers  of  differ- 
ent countries.  It  is  pleasing  to  reflect,  that  a  man  who  enter- 
tained such  refined  ideas  of  friendship,  and  expressed  them  so  hap- 
pily, was  singulai'ly  fortunate  in  this  very  important  article  of  hu- 
man life.  Indeed,  he  was  fortunate  in  this  respect  to  such  a  degree, 
that  Providence  seems  to  have  supplied  him  most  unexpectedly,  at 
different  periods  of  his  troubled  existence,  with  exactly  such  friends 
as  the  peculiar  exi^nces  of  his  situation  required.  The  tnith  of 
this  remark  is  exemplified  in  the  seasonable  assistance  tliat  his 
tender  spirits  derived  from  the  kindness  of  Mrs.  Unwin,  at  Hun« 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  129 

t'mgdon ;  of  Lady  Austen,  and  Lady  Heski'th,  at  Olney,  and  of  his 
young  kinsman  in  Norfolk,  who  will  soon  attract  the  notice  and 
obtain  the  esteem  of  my  reader,  as  the  aftectionate  superintendent 
of  Cowjier's  declining  days.  To  the  honour  of  human  nature,  and 
of  the  present  times,  it  will  appear,  that  a  sequestei'cd  poet,  pre- 
eminent in  genius  and  calamity,  was  beloved  and  assisted  by  his 
friends  of  both  sexes,  with  a  purity  of  zeal,  and  an  inexhaustible 
ardour  of  affection,  more  resembling  the  friendship  of  the  heroic 
ages,  tlian  the  precarious  attachments  of  the  modern  world. 

The  visit  of  Lady  Hesketh,  to  Olney,  led  to  a  very  favourable 
cliange  in  the  residence  of  Cowper.  He  had  now  passed  nineteen 
years  in  a  scene  that  was  far  from  suiting  him.  The  house  he  in- 
habited looked  on  a  market-place,  and  once,  in  a  season  of  illness, 
he  was  so  apprehensive  of  being  incommoded  by  the  bustle  of  a 
fair,  that  he  requested  to  lodge,  for  a  single  night,  under  the  roof 
of  his  friend,  Mr.  Newton ;  and  he  was  tempted,  by  the  more  com- 
fortable situation  of  the  vicarage,  to  remain  fourteen  months  in  the 
house  of  his  benevolent  neighbour.  His  intimacy  with  this  vener- 
able Divine  was  so  great,  that  Mr.  Newton  has  described  it  in  the 
following  remirkable  terms,  in  Memoirs  of  the  Poe:,  which  affec- 
tion induced  him  to  begin,  but  which  the  troubles  and  ir.firmities 
of  vei'y  advanced  life  have  obliged  him  to  relinquish. 

"  For  nearly  twehe  years  we  Avere  seldom  separated  for  seven 
hours  at  a  time,  when  we  were  awake,  and  at  home  : — The  first 
six  I  passed  in  daily  admiring,  and  aiming  to  imitate  him:  dur- 
ing the  second  six,  I  walked  pensively  with  him  in  the  valley  of 
the  shadov/  of  death." 

Mr.  Newton  records,  with  a  becoming  satisfaction,  the  evan- 
gelical charity  of  his  friend;  "  He  loved  the  poor,"  says  his  de- 
vout Memorialist :  "  He  often  visited  them  in  their  cottages,  con- 
versed with  them  in  the  most  condescending  manner,  sympathized 
with  them,  counselled  and  comforted  them  in  their  distresses; 
and  those  who  were  seriously  disposed  Avere  often  cheered  and  ani- 
Biated  by  his  prayers!" — After  the  removal  of  Mr.  Newton  to 
London,  and  the  departure  of  Lady  Austen,  Olney  had  no  par- 
ticular attractiojis  for  Cowper ;  and  Lady  Hesketh  was  happy  in 
promoting  the  project,  which  had  occurred  to  him,  of  removing 
with  Mrs.  Unwin,  to  the  near  and  pleasant  village  of  Weston.  A 
scene  highly  favourable  to  his  health  and  amusement !  For,  with 
a  very  comfortable  mansion,  it  afforded  him  a  garden,  and  a  field 
of  considerable  extent,  which  he  delighted  to  cultivate  and  embel- 
lish. With  these  he  had  advantages  still  more  desirable — easy, 
perpetual  access  to  the  spacious  and  tranquil  pleasure  grounds  of 
his  accomplished  and  benevolent  landlord,  Mr.  Throckmorton, 

VOL.  I.  5 


130  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

whose  neighbouring  house  suppUed  him  "with  society  pecidiar-ly 
suited  to  his  gentle  and  delicate  spirit. 

He  removed  from  Olney  to  Weston  in  November,  1786.  The 
course  of  his  life  in  his  new  situation  (the  spot  most  pleasing  to  his 
fancy)  will  be  best  described  by  the  subsequent  series  of  his  letters 
to  that  amiable  relation  to  whom  he  considered  himself  as  particu-^ 
larly  indebted  for  this  improvement  in  his  domestic  scenery.  With 
these  I  shall  occasionally  connect  a  selection  of  his  letters  to  parti- 
cular friends,  and  particularly  the  letters  addressed  to  one  of  his 
most  intimate  correspondents,  who  happily  commenced  an  acquaint-- 
ance  with  the  poet  in  the  beginning  of  the  year  1787.  I  add  with' 
pleasure  the  name  of  Mr.  Rose,  the  Barrister,  whose  friendship  I 
was  so  fortunate  as  to  share,  by  meeting  him  at  Weston  in  a  sub- 
sequent period,  and  whom  T  instantly  learnt  to  regard  by  finding 
that  he  held  very  justly  a  place  of  the  most  desirable  distinction  in. 
the  heart  of  Cowper. 

LETTER  LXL 
To  Lady  HESKETH 

Weston  Lodge^  JVov.  26,  l786.- 
It  is  my  birth-day,  my  beloved  cousin, 
and  I  determine  to  employ  a  part  of  it,  that  it  may  not  be  destitute 
of  festivity,  in  writing  to  you.  The  dark  thick  fog  that  has  ob- 
scured it  would  have  been  a  burthen  to  me  at  Olney,  but  here  I 
have  hardly  attended  to  it.  The  neatness  and  snugness  of  our 
abode  compensates  aU  the  dreariness  of  the  season,  and  whether 
the  ways  are  wet  or  dry,  our  house  at  least  is  always  warm  and 
commodious.  Oh  !  for  you,  my  cousin,  to  partake  these  comforts 
with  us !  I  will  not  begin  already  to  tease  you  upon  that  subject, 
but  Mrs.  Unwin  remembers  to  have  heard  from  your  own  lips,  that 
you  hate  London  in  the  spring.  Perhaps,  therefore,  by  that  time, 
you  ma)'  be  glad  to  escape  from  a  scene,  which  will  be  every  day 
growing  more  disagreeable,  that  you  may  enjoy  the  comforts  of  the 
Lodge.  You  well  know,  that  the  best  house  has  a  desolate  appear- 
ance unfurnished.  This  house,  accordingly,  since  it  has  been  oc- 
cupied by  us,  and  our  Meubles,  is  as  much  superior  to  what  it  was 
when  you  saw  it,  as  you  can  imagine.  The  parlour  is  even  ele- 
gant. \\nien  I  say  that  the  parlour  is  elegant,  I  do  not  mean  to 
insinuate  that  the  study  is  not  so.  It  is  neat,  warm,  and  silent,  and 
a  much  better  study  than  I  deserve,  if  I  do  not  produce  in  it  an 
incomparable  translation  of  Homer.  I  think  every  day  of  those 
lines  of  Milton,  and  congratulate  myself  on  having  obtained,  be- 
fore I  am  quite  superannuated,  what  he  seems  not  to  have  hoped 
for  sooner. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  ISl 

"  And  may  at  length  my  weary  age 
"  Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage!" 
For  if  it  is  not  a  hermitage,  at  least  it  is  a  much  better  thing ;  and 
you  must  always  understand,  my  dear,  that  when  poets  talk  of  cot- 
tages, hermitages,  and  such  like  things,  they  mean  a  house  with 
six  sashes  in  front,  two  comfortable  parlours,  a  smart  stair-case, 
and  three  bed-chambers  of  convenient  dimensions ;  in  short,  ex- 
actly such  a  house  as  this. 

The  Throckmortons  continue  the  most  obliging  neighbours  in 
the  world.  One  morning  last  week  they  both  went  with  me  to  the 
Cliffs — a  scene,  my  dear,  in  which  you  would  delight  beyond  mea- 
sure, but  which  you  cannot  visit  except  in  the  spring  or  autumn. 
The  heat  of  summer,  and  the  clinging  dii't  of  winter,  would  de- 
sti'oy  you.  What  is  called  the  Cliff,  is  no  cliff,  nor  at  all  like  one, 
but  a  beautiful  terrace,  sloping  gently  down  to  the  Ouse,  and  from 
the  brow  of  which,  though  not  loft)',  you  have  a  view  of  such  a 
valley  as  makes  that  which  you  see  from  the  hills  near  Olney,  and 
which  I  have  had  the  honour  to  celebrate,  an  affair  of  no  consi- 
deration. 

Wintry  as  the  weather  is,  do  not  suspect  that  it  confines  me.  I 
ramble  daily,  and  every  day  change  my  ramble.  Wherever  I  go, 
I  find  short  grass  under  my  feet,  and  when  I  have  travelled,  per- 
haps, five  miles,  come  home  with  shoes  not  at  all  too  dirty  for  a 
drawing-room.  I  was  pacing  yesterday  under  the  elms  that  sur- 
round the  field  in  which  stands  the  great  alcove,  when,  lifting  my 
eyes,  I  saw  two  black  genteel  figures  bolt  through  a  hedge  into  the 
path  where  I  was  walking.  You  guess  already  who  they  were, 
and  that  they  could  be  nobody  but  our  neighbours.  They  had  seen 
me  from  a  hill  at  a  distance,  and  had  traversed  a  great  turnip- 
field  to  get  at  me.  You  see,  therefoi-e,  my  dear,  that  I  am  in  some 
request.  Alas!  in  too  much  request  with  some  people.  The  verses 
of  Cadwallader  have  found  me  at  last. 

I  am  charmed  with  your  account  of  our  little  cousin*  at  Ken- 
■sington.  If  the  woi'ld  does  not  spoil  him  hereafter,  he  will  be  a 
valuable  man. 

Gootl  night,  and  may  God  bless  thee.  W.  C. 


LETTER  LXII. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Dec.  A,  1786. 

I  sent  you,  my  dear,  a  melancholy  letter, 

and  I  do  not  know  that  I  shall  now  send  you  one  very  unlike  it, 

*  Loid  Cpwper. 


132  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

Not  that  any  thing  occurs,  in  consequence  of  our  late  loss,  more 
afflictive  than  was  to  be  expected,  but  the  mind  does  not  perfectly 
i-ecover  its  tone  after  a  shock  like  that  which  has  been  felt  so 
lately.  This  I  observe,  that  though  my  experience  has  long  since 
taught  me  that  this  world  is  a  world  of  shadows,  and  that  it  is  the 
more  prudent,  as  well  as  the  more  Christian  course,  to  possess 
the  comforts  that  we  find  in  it  as  if  we  possessed  them  not,  it 
is  no  easy  matter  to  reduce  this  doctrine  into  practice.  We  forget 
that  that  God  whp  gave  it  may,  when  he  pleas  s,  take  it  away ; 
and  that,  perhaps,  it  may  please  him  to  take  it  at  a  time  wh^n 
we  least  expect  jt,  or  are  least  disposed  to  part  from  it.  Thus  it 
has  happened  in  the  present  case.  There  never  was  a  moment 
in  Unwin's  life  when  there  seemed  to  be  more  urgent  want  of 
him  than  the  moment  in  which  he  died.  He  had  attained  to  an 
age  when,  if  they  are  at  any  time  useful,  men  become  more  use- 
ful to  their  families,  their  friends,  and  the  world.  His  parish  be- 
gan to  feel,  and  to  be  sensible  of  the  advantages  of  his  ministry. 
The  clergy  around  him  were  many  of  them  awed  by  his  example. 
His  children  were  thriving  under  his  own  tuition  and  management, 
and  his  eldest  boy  is  likely  to  feel  his  loss  severely,  being,  by  his 
years,  in  some  respect  qualified  to  understand  the  value  of  such  ^ 
parent,  by  his  literaiy  proficiency — too  clever  for  a  school-boy, 
and  too  young,  at  tlie  same  time,  for  the  university.  The  re- 
moval of  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life,  of  such  a  character,  and 
■with  such  connections,  seems  to  make  a  void  in  society  that  never 
can  be  filled.  God  seemed  to  have  made  him  just  what  he  was, 
that  he  might  be  a  blessing  to  others,  and  when  the  influence  of 
his  character  and  abilities  began  to  be  felt,  removed  him.  These 
are  mysteries,  my  dear,  that  we  cannot  contemplate  witliout  asto- 
nishment, but  which  will,  nevertheless,  be  explained  hereafter^ 
and  must,  in  the  mean  time,  be  revered  in  silence  It  is  well  for 
his  mother  that  she  has  spent  her  life  in  the  practice  of  an  ha- 
bitual acquiescence  in  the  dispensations  of  Providence,  else  I  know 
that  this  stroke  would  ha\'e  been  heavier,  after  all  that  she  has 
suffered  upon  another  account,  than  she  could  have  borne.  She 
derives,  as  she  well  may,  great  consolation  from  the  thought, 
that  he  lived  the  life  and  died  the  death  of  a  Christian.  The 
consequence  is,  if  possible,  more  unavoidable  than  the  most  mathe- 
matical conclusion,  that  therefore  he  is  happy.  So  farewell,  my 
friend  Unwin !  the  first  man  for  whom  I  conceived  a  friendship 
after  my  removal  from  St.  Alban's,  and  for  whom  I  cannot  but  still 
continue  to  feel  a  friendship,  though  I  shall  see  thee  with  these 
eyes  no  more. 

W.  C.    , 


LIFE  OF  C0^\TER:  133 

LETTER  LXIII. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

Weston,  Dec.  9,  1^86. 
I  am  perfectly  sure  that  you  are  mistaken, 
though  I  do  not  wonder  at  it,  considering  the  singular  nature  of 
the  event,  in  the  judgment  that  you  form  of  poor  Unwin's  death, 
as  it  affects  the  interests  of  his  intended  pupil.  W'hen  a  tutor  was 
wanted  for  him,  you  sought  out  the  wisest  and  best  man  for  the 
office  within  the  circle  of  your  connections.  It  pleased  God  to 
take  him  home  to  himself.  Men  eminently  wise  and  good  are  very 
apt  to  die,  because  they  are  fit  to  do  so.  You  found  in  Unwin  a 
man  worthy  to  succeed  him,  and  He,  in  whose  liands  are  the  is- 
sues of  life  and  death,  seeing,  no  doubt,  that  Unwin  was  ripe  for 
a  removal  into  a  better  state,  removed  him  also.  The  matter, 
viewed  in  this  light,  seems  not  so  wonderful  as  to  refuse  all  ex- 
planation, except  such  as,  in  a  melancholy  moment,  you  haAC 
given  to  it.  And  I  am  so  convinced  that  the  little  boy's  destiny 
had  no  influence  at  all  in  hastening  the  death  of  his  tutors  elect, 
that  were  it  not  impossible,  on  more  accounts  than  one,  that  I 
should  be  able  to  serve  him  in  that  capacity,  I  would,  without  the 
least  fear  of  dying  a  moment  the  sooner,  offer  myself  to  that  of- 
fice; I  would  even  do  it,  were  I  conscious  of  the  same  fitness  for 
another  and  better  state  that  I  believe  them  to  have  been  both 
endowed  with.  In  that  case,  I,  perhaps,  might  die  too,  but  if  I 
should,  it  would  not  be  on  account  of  that  connection.  Neither, 
my  dear,  had  your  intei-ference  in  the  business  anything  to  do 
with  the  catastrophe.  Your  whole  conduct  in  it  must  have  been 
acceptable  in  the  sight  of  God,  as  it  was  directed  by  principles  of 
the  purest  benevolence. 

I  have  not  touched  Homer  to-day.  Yesterday  was  one  of  my 
terrible  seasons,  and  when  I  arose  this  morning  I  found  that  I  had 
not  sufficiently  recovered  myself  to  engage  in  such  an  occupation. 
Having  letters  to  write,  I  the  more  willingly  gave  myself  a  dis- 
pensation.    Good  nijjht. 

\\\  C. 


LETTER  LXrV\ 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esquire. 

Weston,  Dec.  9,  1786, 
My  drar  Frif.nd, 

We  had  just  begun  to  enjoy  the  plcasant- 
Bv^ss  of  our  ncv,-  situation,  to  find,  at  least,  as  much  comfort  in  it 


134  LIFE  OF  COW  PER. 

as  the  season  of  the  year  would  permit,  when  affliction  found  us 
out  in  our  retreat,  and  the  news  reached  us  of  the  death  of  Mr, 
Unwin.  He  had  taken  a  western  tour  with  Mr.  Henry  Thornton, 
and  in  his  return,  at  Winchester,  was  seized  with  a  putrid  fever, 
which  sent  him  to  his  gra\'e.  He  is  gone  to  it,  however,  though 
young,  as  fit  for  it  as  age  itself  could  have  made  him.  Regretted, 
indeed,  and  always  to  be  regretted  by  those  who  knew  him,  for 
he  had  every  thing  that  makes  a  man  valuable  both  in  his  princi- 
ples and  in  his  manners,  but  leaving  still  this  consolation  to  his 
surviving  friends,  that  he  was  desirable  in  this  world  chiefly  be- 
cause he  was  so  well  prepared  for  a  better. 

I  find  myself  here  situated  exactly  to  my  mind.  Weston  is  one 
of  the  prettiest  villages  in  England,  and  the  walks  about  it  at  all 
seasons  of  the  year  delightfiil.  I  know  that  you  will  rejoice  with 
me  in  the  change  that  we  have  made,  and  for  which  I  am  altoge- 
ther indebted  to  Lady  Hesketh.  It  is  a  change  as  great  as,  to 
compare  metropolitan  things  with  rural,  from  St.  Giles  to  Gros- 
venor-Square.  Our  house  is  in  all  respects  commodious,  and  in 
some  degree  elegant;  and  I  cannot  give  you  a  better  idea  of  that 
which  we  ha^-e  left,  tlian  by  telling  you  the  present  candidates  for 
it  are  a  publican  and  a  shoemaker. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  LXV. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

Weston,  Dec.  21^  1786. 
Your  welcome  letter,  my  beloved  cousin, 
^hich  ought  by  the  date  to  have  arrixed  on  Sunday,  being  by  some 
lintoward  accident  delayed,  came  not  till  yesterday.  It  came, 
however,  and  has  relieved  me  from  a  thousand  distressing  appre- 
hensions on  your  account. 

The  dew  of  your  intelligence  has  refreshed  my  poetical  laurels. 
A  little  praise  now  and  then  is  very  good  for  your  hard-working 
poet,  whio  is  apt  to  grow  languid,  and  perhaps  careless,  without  it. 
Praise,  I  find,  affects  us  as  money  does.  The  more  a  man  gets  of 
it,  with  the  more  \igilance  he  watches  over  and  preserves  it. 
Snch,  at  least,  is  its  effect  on  me,  and  you  may  assure  yourself  tliat 
1  will  never  lose  a  mite  of  it  for  want  of  care. 

I  have  already  invited  the  good  Padre  in  general  terms,  and  he 
shall  positively  dine  here  next  week,  whether  he  will  or  not.  I  do 
not  at  all  susjject  that  his  kindness  to  Protestants  has  any  thing  in- 
sidious in  it,  any  more  than  I  suspect  that  he  transcribes  Homer  for 
ftK)  with  a  view  for  my  conversion.  He  would  find  tliat  a  tough  piece 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  13J 

of  business,  I  can  tell  him;  for  when  I  had  no  religion  at  all,  I  had 
yet  a  terrible  dread  of  the  Pope.    How  much  more  now  I 

I  should  have  sent  you  a  longer  letter,  but  was  obliged  to  devote 
my  last  evening  to  the  melancholy  employment  of  composing  a 
Latin  inscription  for  the  tomb-stone  of  poor  William,  two  copies 
of  which  I  wrote  out  and  encUosed,  one  to  Henry  Thornton  and  one 
to  Mr.  Newton.  Homer  stands  by  me  biting  his  thumbs,  and  swears 
that  if  I  do  not  leave  off  d'.rectly  he  will  choak  me  with  bristly 
Greek  that  shall  stick  in  my  throat  for  ever. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  LXVL 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Jan.  8,  178/. 
I  have  had  a  little  nervous  fever  lately, 
my  dear,  that  has  somewhat  abridged  my  sleep;  and  though  I 
find  myself  better  to-day  than  I  have  been  since  it  seized  me,  yet 
I  feel  my  head  lightish,  and  not  in  the  best  order  for  writing :  you 
will  find  me,  therefore,  perhaps,  not  only  less  alert  in  my  man- 
ner than  I  usually  am  when  my  spirits  are  good,  but  rather 
shorter.  I  will,  hov/ever,  proceed  to  scribble  till  I  find  that  it 
fatigues  me,  and  then  will  do  as  I  know  you  would  bid  me  do  were 
you  here,  shut  up  my  desk,  and  take  a  walk. 

The  good  General  tells  rne,  that  in  the  eight  first  books  which 
I  have  sent  him,  he  still  finds  alterations  and  amendments  neces- 
sary, of  which  I  myself  am  equally  persuaded ;  and  he  asks  my 
leave  to  lay  them  before  an  intimate  friend  of  his,  of  Avhom  he 
gives  a  character  that  bespeaks  him  highly  deserving  such  a  trust. 
To  this  I  have  no  objection,  desiring  only  to  make  the  translation 
as  perfect  as  I  can  make  it :  if  God  grant  me  life  and  health,  I 
would  spare  no  labour  to  secure  that  point.  The  General's  letter 
is  extremely  kind,  and,  both  for  matter  and  manner,  like  all  the 
I'cst  of  his  dealings  with  his  cousin  the  poet. 

I  had  a  letter,  also,  yesterday,  from  Mr.  Smith,  member  for 
Nottingham.  Though  we  never  saw  each  other,  he  writes  to  me 
in  the  most  friendly  terms,  and  interests  himself  much  in  my 
Homer,  and  in  the  success  of  my  subscription.  Speaking  on  this 
latter  subject,  he  says,  tliat  my  poems  are  read  by  hundreds  who 
know  nothing  of  my  proposals,  and  makes  no  douljt  that  they 
Avould  subscribe  if  they  did.  I  have  myself  always  thought  them 
imperfectly,  or  rather  insufficiently  announced. 

I  could  pity  the  poor  woman  who  has  been  weak  enough  to 
claim  my  5ong,     Such  pilferin^s  are  sure  to  be  detected.     I  wrote 


iih  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

it  I  know  not  h6w  long,  but  I  suppose  four  years  ago.  The  rose 
in  question  was  a  rose  given  to  Lady  Austen  by  Mrs.  Unwin,  and 
the  incident  that  suggested  tlie  subject  occurred  in  the  room  in 
which  you  slept  at  the  vicarage,  which  Lady  Austen  made  her 
dining-room.  Some  time  since,  Mr.  Bull  going  to  London,  I  gave 
him  a  copy  of  it,  which  he  undertoolc  to  convey  to  Nichols,  the 
printer  of  the  Gentleman's  Magazine.     He  showed  it  to  a  Mrs. 

G ,  who  begged  to  copy  it,  and  promised  to  send  it  to  the 

printer's  by  her  servant.  Three  or  four  months  afterwards,  and 
when  I  had  concluded  it  was  lost,  I  saw  it  in  the  Gentleman's 
Magazine,  with  my  signature,  W. C.  Poor  simpleton!  she  will 
find  now,  perhaps,  that  the  Rose  had  a  thorn,  and  that  she  has 
pricked  her  fingers  with  it.     Adieu !  my  beloved  cousm. 

w.  c. 


LETTER  LXVn. 

To  Lady  HESKETH. 

T/ie  Lodffey  Jan.  8,  1787. 
I  have  been  so  much  indisposed  with  the 
lever  that  I  told  you  had  seized  me,  my  nights  during  the  whole 
week  may  be  said  to  have  been  almost  sleepless.  The  consequence 
has  been,  that  except  the  translation  of  about  thirty  lines  at  the 
conclusion  of  the  13th  book,  I  have  been  forced  to  abandon  Homer 
entirely.  This  was  a  sensible  mortification  to  me,  as  you  may 
suppose,  and  felt  the  more,  because  my  spirits,  of  course,  fail- 
ing wiiii  m.y  strength,  I  seemed  to  have  peculiar  need  of  my  old 
amusement;  it  seemed  hard,  therefore,  to  be  forced  to  resign  it 
just  when  I  wanted  it  most.  But  Homer's  battles  cannot  be  fought 
by  a  man  who  does  not  sleep  well,  and  who  has  not  some  little  de- 
gree of  animation  in  the  day-time.  Last  night,  however,  quite 
contrary  to  my  expectations,  the  fever  left  me  entirely,  and  I 
slept  quietly,  soundly,  and  long.  If  it  please  God  that  it  return 
not,  I  shall  soon  find  myself  in  a  condition  to  pi-oceed.  I  walk 
constantly,  that  is  to  say,  Mrs.  Unwin  and  I  together  ;  for  at  these 
times  I  keep  her  continually  employed,  and  never  suffer  her  to  be 
absent  from  me  many  minutes.  She  gives  me  all  her  time  and  all 
her  attention,  and  forgets  that  there  is  another  object  in  the  world. 
Mrs.  Carter  thinks  on  the  subject  of  dreams  as  every  body  else 
does,  that  is  to  say,  according  to  her  own  experience.  She  has  had 
no  extraordinary  ones,  and  therefore  accounts  them  only  the  ordi- 
nary operations  of  the  fancy.  Mine  are  of  a  textui'e  that  Avill  not 
suffer  me  to  ascribe  them  to  so  inadequate  a  cause,  or  to  any  cause 
biit  the  operation  of  an  exterior  agency,    I  have  a  mind,  my 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  137 

dear,  (and  to  you  I  will  venture  to  boast  of  it)  as  free  from  super- 
stition as  any  man  living ;  neither  do  I  give  heed  to  dreams  in  ge- 
neral as  predictive,  though  particular  dreams  I  believe  to  be  so. 
Some  very  sensible  persons,  and  I  suppose  Mrs.  Carter  among 
them,  will  acknowledge  that  in  old  times  God  spoke  by  dreams, 
but  affirm,  with  much  boldness,  that  he  has  since  ceased  to  do  so. 
If  you  ask  them  why,  they  answer,  because  he  has  now  i-evealed 
his  will  in  the  scripture,  and  there  is  no  longer  any  need  that  he 
should  instruct  or  admonish  us  by  dreams.  I  grant  that,  witli  re- 
spect to  doctrines  and  precepts,  he  has  left  us  in  want  of  nothing ; 
but  has  he  thereby  precluded  himself  in  any  of  the  operations  of  his 
providence?  Surely  jiot.  It  is  perfectly  a  different  consideration; 
and  the  same  need  that  there  ever  was  of  his  interference  hi  this 
way,  there  is  still  and  ever  must  be  wliile  man  continues  blind  and 
fallible,  and  a  creature  beset  with  dangers  which  he  can  neither 
foresee  nor  obviate.  His  operations,  howevei-,  of  this  kind,  are,  I 
allow,  very  rare;  and  as  to  the  generality  of  dreams,  they  are 
made  of  such  stuff,  and  are  in  themselves  so  insignificant,  tliat 
though  I  believe  them  all  to  be  the  manufacture  of  others,  not  our 
own,  I  account  it  not  a  farthing  matter  who  manufactures  them. 
So  much  for  di*eams. 

My  fever  is  not  yet  gone,  but  sometimes  seems  to  leave  me.  It 
is  altogether  of  the  nervous  kind,  and  attended,  now  and  then, 
with  much  dejection. 

A  young  gentleman  called  here  yesterday,  who  came  six  miles 
out  of  his  way  to  see  me.  He  was  on  a  journey  to  London  from 
Glasgow,  having  just  left  the  University  there.  He  came,  I  sup- 
pose, partly  to  satisfy  his  own  curiosity,  but  chiefly,  as  it  seemed, 
to  bring  me  the  thanks  of  some  of  the  Scotch  Professors  for  my  two 
volumes.  His  name  is  Rose,  an  Englishman.  Your  spirits  being 
good,  you  will  derive  more  pleasure  from  this  incident  than  I  can 
At  present,  therefore  I  send  it.     Adieu. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  LXVin. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

Weston,  July  24///,  17B7^ 
Dear  Sir,' 

This  is  the  first  time  I  have  written  these 
six  months,  and  nothing  but  the  constraint  of  obligation  could  induce 
me  to  write  now.  I  cannot  be  so  wanting  to  myself  as  not  to  en- 
deavour at  least  to  thank  you  both  for  the  visits  with  which  you 
hfi\  e  favoured  rae,  and  the  poems  that  you  sent  me.  In  my  pre- 
VOL,  r.  T 


I3d  LIFE  OF  COWFER. 

sent  state  of  mind  I  taste  nothing ;  nevertheless  I  read,  partly  from 
habit,  and  partly  because  it  is  the  only  thing  that  I  am  capable  of. 

I  have  therefore  read  Burns's Poems,  and  have  read  them  twice: 
and  though  they  be  written  in  a  langTiage  that  is  new  to  me,  and 
many  of  them  on  subjects  much  inferior  to  tlie  author's  ability,  I 
think  them,  on  the  whole,  a  very  extraordinary  production.  He 
is,  I  believe,  the  only  poet  these  kingdoms  have  produced  in  the 
lower  rank  of  life  since  Shakspeare,  I  should  rather  say  since  Prior, 
who  need  not  be  indebted  for  any  part  of  his  praise  to  a  charitable 
consideration  of  his  origin,  and  the  disadvantages  under  which  he 
has  laboured.  It  will  be  pity  if  he  should  not  hereafter  divest 
himself  of  barbarism,  and  content  himself  with  writing  pure  Eng- 
lish, in  which  he  appeal's  perfectly  qualified  to  excel.  He  who 
can  command  admiration,  dishonours  himself  if  he  aims  no  higher 
than  to  raise  a  laugh. 

I  am,  dear  Sir,  with  my  best  wishes  for  your  prosperity,  and 
with  Mrs.  Un win's  respects,  your  obliged  and  affectionate  humble 
servant,  W.  C» 


LETTER  LXIX. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

IVeston,  Aug,  27,  1787» 
Dear  Sir, 

I  have  not  yet  taken  up  the  pen  again,. 
except  to  write  to  you.  The  little  taste  that  I  have  had  of  your 
company,  and  your  kindness  in  finding  me  out,  make  me  wish  that 
we  were  neai-er  neighbours,  and  that  tliere  were  not  so  great  a 
disparity  in  om*  years ;  that  is  to  say,  not  that  you  were  older,  but 
that  I  were  younger.  Could  we  have  met  in  early  life,  I  flatter 
myself  that  we  might  have  been  more  intimate  than  now  we  are 
likely  to  be.  But  you  shall  not  find  me  slow  to  cultivate  such  a 
measure  of  your  regard  as  your  friends  of  yom-  own  age  can  spare 
me.  When  your  route  sliull  lie  through  this  country,  I  shall  hope 
that  the  same  kindness  which  has  prompted  you  twice  to  call  on 
me,  will  prompt  you  again ;  and  I  shall  be  happy  if,  on  a  future 
occasion,  I  may  be  able  to  give  you  a  more  cheerful  reception  than 
can  be  expected  from  an  invalid.  My  health  and  spirits  are  con- 
siderably improved,  and  I  once  more  associate  with  my  neighbours* 
My  head,  however,  has  been  the  worst  part  of  me,  and  still  con- 
tinues so ; — is  subject  to  giddiness  and  pain,  maladies  very  mifa- 
vourable  to  poetical  employment :  but  a  preparation  of  the  bark, 
which  I  take  regularly,  has  so  far  been  of  service  to  me  in  those 
respects,  as  to  encourage  in  me  a  hope  that,  by  pei-severance  in 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  139 

the  use  of  it,  I  may  possibly  find  myself  qualified  to  resume  the 
translation  of  Homer. 

When  I  cannot  walk  I  read,  and  read  perhaps  more  than  is 
good  for  me.  But  I  cannot  be  idle.  The  only  mercy  that  1  show 
myself  in  this  respect  is,  that  I  read  nothing  that  requires  much 
closeness  of  application.  I  lately  finished  the  perusal  of  a  book, 
■which  in  former  years  I  have  more  than  once  attacked,  but  never 
till  now  conquered ;  some  other  book  always  interfered  before  I 
could  finish  it.  The  work  I  mean  is  Barclay's  Argenis,  and  if  ever 
you  allow  youi'self  to  read  for  mere  amusement,  I  can  recommend 
it  to  you  (provided  you  have  not  already  perused  it)  as  the  most 
amusing  romance  that  ever  was  written.  It  is  the  only  one,  in- 
deed, of  an  old  date,  that  I  ever  had  the  patience  to  go  through 
with.  It  is  in.ei'esting  in  a  high  degree;  richer  in  incident  than 
can  be  imagined,  full  of  surprises,  which  the  reader  never  fore- 
stalls, and  yet  free  from  all  entanglement  and  confusion.  The 
stile  too  appears  to  me  to  be  such  as  would  not  dishonour  Tacitus 
himself. 

Poor  Burns  loses  much  of  his  deserved  praise  in  this  country, 
through  our  ignorance  of  his  language.  I  despair  of  meeting  with 
any  Englishman  who  will  take  the  pains  that  I  have  taken  to  un- 
dei'stand  him.  His  candle  is  bright,  but  shut  up  in  a  dark  lantern. 
I  lent  him  to  a  very  sensible  neighbour  of  mine,  but  his  uncouth 
dialect  spoiled  all,  and  before  he  had  half  read  him  through,  he 
•was  quite  ramfeezled. 

w.  c. 


LETTER  LXX. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Aug.  30,  17B7. 
Mt  dkarest  Cousin, 

Though  it  costs  me  something  to  write, 
it  would  cost  me  more  to  be  silent.  JVly  intercourse  with  my 
neighbours  being  renewed,  I  can  no  longer  seem  to  forget  how 
many  I'casons  there  are  why  you  especially  should  not  be  neglected; 
no  neighbour,  indeed,  but  the  kindest  of  my  friends,  and  ere  long, 
I  hope,  an  inmate. 

My  health  and  spirits  seem  to  be  mending  daily ;  to  what  end  I 
know  not,  neither  will  conjecture,  but  endea\'our,  as  far  as  I  can, 
to  be  content  that  they  do  so.  I  use  exercise,  and  take  the  air  in 
the  park  and  wilderness.  I  read  much,  but  as  yet  write  not.  Our 
friends  at  the  Hall  make  themselves  more  and  more  amiable  in  our 
account,  by  treating  us  rather  as  old  friends  tlian  as  friends  newly 


140  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

acquired.  There  are  few  days  in  which  we  do  not  meet,  and  I  am 
now  almost  as  mach  at  home  in  their  house  as  in  our  own.  Mr. 
Throckmorton/  having  long  since  put  me  in  possession  of  all  his 
ground,  has  now  given  me  possession  of  his  library — an  acquisition 
of  great  value  to  me,  who  never  have  been  able  to  live  without 
books  since  I  first  knew  my  letters,  and  who  have  no  books  of  my 
own.  By  his  means  I  have  been  so  well  supplied,  that  I  have  not 
yet  even  looked  at  the  Lounger,  for  which,  however,  I  do  not 
forget  that  I  am  obliged  to  you.  His  turn  comes  next,  and  I  shall 
probably  begin  him  to-morrow. 

Mr.  George  Throckmorton  is  at  the  Hall.  I  thought  I  had 
known  these  brothers  long  enough  to  have  found  out  all  their 
talents  and  accomplishments  ;  but  I  was  mistaken.  The  day  be- 
fore yesterday,  after  having  walked  with  us,  they  carried  us  up  to 
the  library,  (a  more  accurate  writer  would  have  said  conducted  us) 
and  then  they  showed  me  the  contents  of  an  immense  port-folio, 
the  work  of  their  own  hands.  It  was  furnished  with  drawings  of 
the  architectural  kind,  executed  in  a  most  masterly  manner,  and 
among  others  contained  outside  and  inside  views  of  the  Pantheon, 
I  mean  the  Roman  one.  They  were  all,  I  believe,  made  at  Rome. 
Some  men  may  be  estimated  at  a  first  interview,  but  the  Throck- 
mortons  must  be  seen  often  and  known  long  before  one  can  under- 
stand all  their  value. 

They  often  inquire  after  you,  and  ask  me  whether  you  visit 
Weston  this  autumn.  I  answer  yes,  and  I  charge  you,  my  dearest 
cousin,  to  authenticate  my  information.  Write  to  me,  and  tell  us 
when  we  may  expect  to  see  you.  We  are  disappointed  that  we 
had  no  letter  from  you  this  morning.  You  will  find  me  coated  and 
buttoned  according  to  your  recommendation. 

I  write  but  little,  because  writing  is  become  new  to  me;  but  I 
shall  come  on  by  degrees.  Mrs.  Unwin  begs  to  be  affectionately 
remembered  to  you.  She  is  in  tolerable  health,  which  is  the  chief 
comfort  here  that  I  have  to  boast  of. 

Yours,  my  dearest  cousin,  as  ever,  W.  C, 


LETTER  LXXI. 

To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Sejit.  4,  1787. 
My  eearest  Coz. 

Come  when  thou  canst  come,  secure  of 
being  always  welcome.  AH  that  is  here  is  thine,  together  with 
the  hearts  of  those  who  dwell  here.  I  am  only  sorry  that  your 
journey  hither  is  necessarily  postponed  beyond  the  time  when  I  did 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  14t 

Irope  to  h&ve  iseen  you — sorry  too,  tliat  my  uncle's  inffrmilies  are 
the  occasion  of  it.  But  years  ivill  have  their  course  and  their  ef- 
fect: they  are  happiest,  so  far  as  this  life  is  concerned,  who,  like 
him,  escape  those  effects  the  longest,  and  who  do  not  grow  old 
before  their  time.  Trouble  and  anguish  do  that  for  some,  which 
only  longevity  does  for  others.  A  few  months  since  I  was  older 
than  your  father  is  noAv ;  and  though  I  have  lately  recovered,  as 
FalstafF  says,  some  smatch  of  my  youth^  I  have  but  little  confidence, 
in  truth  none,  in  so  flattering  a  change,  but  expect,  nohen  I  least . 
exfiect  it,  to  wither  again.  The  past  is  a  pledge  for  the  future.  . 
Mr.  G.  is  here,  Mrs.  Throckmorton's  uncle.  He  is  lately  ar- 
rived from  Italy,  where  he  has  resided  several  years,  and  is  so 
much  the  gentleman  that  it  is  impossible  to  be  more  so.  Sensible, 
polite,  obliging ;  slender  in  his  figure,  and  in  manner  most  engag- 
ing— e^'^ry  way  worthy  to  be  related  to  the  Throckmortons. 1 

have  read  Savary's  Travels  into  Egypt,  Memoires  du  Baron  de 
Tott,  Fenn's  Original  Letters,  the  Letters  of  Frederick  of  Bohe- 
mia, and  am  now  reading  Memoires  d'  Henri  de  Lorraine,  Due  de 
Guise.  I  have  also  read  Barclay's  Argenis,  a  Latin  romance,  and 
the  best  romance  that  was  ever  written.  All  these,  together  with 
Madan's  Letters  to  Priestley,  and  several  pamphlets,  within  these 
two  months.    So  I  am  a  great  reader. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  LXXn. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Sept.  15,  178^. 
My  dearf.st  Cousin, 

On  Monday  last  I  was  invited  to  meet 

your  friend  Miss  J at  the  Hall,  and  there  we  found  her.    Her 

good  nature,  her  humorous  manner,  and  her  good  sense  are 
charming,  insomuch  that  even  I,  who  was  never  much  addicted  to 
speech-making,  and  who  at  present  find  myself  particularly  indis- 
posed to  it,  could  not  help  saying  at  parting, '  I  am  glad  that  I  have 
seen  you,  and  sorry  that  I  have  seen  so  little  of  you.'  We  were 
sometimes  many  in  company — on  Thursday  we  were  fifteen ;  but 
■we  had  not  altogether  so  much  vivacity  and  cleverness  as  Miss 
J ,  whose  talent  at  mirth-making  has  this  rare  property  to  re- 
commend it,  that  nobody  suffers  by  it. 

I  am  making  a  gravel  walk  for  winter  use,  under  a  warm  hedge 
in  the  r.rchard.  It  shall  be  furnished  with  a  low  scat  for  your  ac- 
commodation, and  if  you  do  bat  like  it,  I  shall  be  satisfied.  In 
-wet  weather,  or  rather  after  wet  weatlier,  -when  the  street  Is  dirty, 


142  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

it  will  suit  you  well,  for  lying  on  an  easy  declivity,  through  its 
whole  length,  it  must  of  course  be  immediately  dry. 

You  are  very  nmch  wished  for  by  our  friends  at  the  Hall— how 
much  by  me  I  will  not  tell  you  till  the  second  week  in  October. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  LXXm. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 
My  dear  Coz.  The  Lodge,  SefiU  29,  178?'. 

I  thank  you  for  your  political  intelligence; 
retired  as  we  are,  and  seemingly  excluded  from  the  world,  we  are 
hot  indifferent  to  what  passes  in  it;  on  the  contrary,  the  arrival 
of  a  newspaper,  at  the  present  juncture,  never  fails  to  furnish  us 
with  a  theme  for  discussion,  short,  indeed,  but  satisfactory,  for 
we  seldom  differ  in  opinion. 

I  have  received  such  an  impression  of  the  Turks,  from  the 
Memoirs  of  Baron  de  Tott,  which  I  read  lately,  that  I  can  hardly 
help  presaging  the  conquest  of  that  empire  by  the  Russians.    The 
disciples  of  Mahomet  are  such  babies  in  modern  tactics,  and  so 
enervated  by  the  use  of  their  favourite  drug,  so  fatally  secure  in 
their  predestinarian  dream,  and  so  prone  to  a  spirit  of  mutiny 
against  their  leaders,  that  nothing  less  can  be  expected.      In  fact, 
they  had  not  been  their  own  masters  at  this  day,  had  but  the  Rus- 
sians known  the  weakness  of  their  enemies  half  so  well  as  they  un- 
doubtedly know  it  now.     Add  to  this,  that  there  is  a  popular  pro- 
phecy current  in  both  countries,  that  Turkey  is  one  day  to  fall 
under  the  Russian  sceptre:  a  prophecy  which,  from  whatever  au- 
thority it  be  derived,  as  it  will  naturally  encourage  the  Rus.'^ians 
and  dispirit  the  Turks  in  exact  proportion  to  the  degree  of  credit 
it  has  obtained  on  both  sides,  has  a  direct  tendency  to  effect  its 
own  accomplishment.     In  the  mean  time,   if  I  wish  them  con- 
quered, it  is  only  because  I  think  it  will  be  a  blessing  to  them  to 
be  governed  by  any  other  hand  than  their  own  5  for  under  Hea- 
ven has  there  never  been  a  throne  so  execrably  tyrannical  as  theirs. 
Tlie  heads  of  the  innocent  that  have  been  cut  off  to  gratify  the 
humour  or  caprice  of  their  tyrants,  could  they  be  all  collected,  and 
discharged  against  the  walls  of  their  city,  would  not  leave  one 
stone  on  another. 

Oh,  that  you  were  here  this  beautiful  day  !  It  is  too  fine  by 
half  to  be  spent  in  London.  I  have  a  perpetual  din  in  my  head, 
and  though  I  am  not  deaf,  hear  nothing  aright,  neither  my  own 
voice,  nor  that  of  others.  I  am  under  a  tub,  from  which  tub  ac- 
cept my  best  love.    Yours,,  W.C. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  143 

LETTER  LXXIV. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 
Dear  Sir,  Weston,  Oct.  19,  1787. 

A  summons  from  Johnson,  which  I  re- 
ceived yesterday,  calls  my  attention  once  more  to  the  business  of 
translation.  Before  I  begin  I  am  willing  to  catch,  though  but  a 
short  opportunity,  to  acknowledge  your  last  favour.  The  neces- 
sity of  applying  myself  with  all  diligence  to  a  long  work  that  has 
been  but  too  long  interrupted,  will  make  my  opportunities  of  writ- 
ing rare  in  future. 

Air  and  exercise  are  necessary  to  all  men,  but  particularly  so 
to  the  man  whose  mind  labours  ;  and  to  him  who  has  been,  all  his 
life,  accustomed  to  much  of  both,  they  are  necessary  in  the  ex- 
treme. My  time,  since  we  parted,  has  been  devoted  entirely  to 
the  recovery  of  health  and  strength  for  this  service,  and  I  am  Avil- 
ling  to  hope  with  good  effect.  Ten  months  have  passed  since  I 
discontinued  my  poetical  efforts :  I  do  not  expect  to  find  the  same 
readiness  as  before,  till  exercise  of  the  neglected  faculty,  such  as 
it  is,  shall  have  restored  it  to  me. 

You  find  yourself,  I  hope,  by  this  time,  as  comfortably  situated 
in  your  new  abode,  as  in  a  new  abode  one  can  be.  I  enter  per- 
fectly into  all  your  feelings  on  occasion  of  the  change.  A  sensible 
mind  cannot  do  violence  even  to  a  local  attachment,  without  much 
pain.  When  my  father  died  I  was  young,  too  young  to  have  re- 
flected much.  He  was  Rector  of  Berkhamstead,  and  there  I  was 
born.  It  had  never  occurred  to  me  that  a  parson  has  no  fee-simple 
in  the  glebe  and  house  he  occupies.  There  was  neither  tree,  nor 
gate,  nor  stile,  in  all  that  country,  to  which  I  did  not  feel  a  rela- 
tion, and  the  house  itself  I  preferred  to  a  palace.  I  was  sent  for 
from  London  to  attend  him  in  his  last  illness,  and  he  died  just  be^ 
fore  I  arrived.  Then,  and  not  till  then*  I  felt,  for  the  first  time, 
that  I  and  my  native  place  were  disunited  for  ever.  I  sighed  a  long 
adieu  to  fields  and  woods,  from  which  I  once  thought  I  should 
never  be  parted,  and  was  at  no  time  so  sensible  of  their  beauties 
as  just  when  I  left  them  all  behind  me,  to  return  no  more. 

W.  C. 

LETTER  LXXV. 
To   Lady   HESKETH. 

T/ie  Lodge,  Mv.  10,  1787. 
The  parliament,  my  dearest  cousin,  pro- 
rogued continually,  is  a  meteor  dancing  before  my  eyes,  promis- 
ing me  my  wish  only  to  disappoint  me,  and  none  but  the  king  and 


144  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

his  ministers  can  tell  when  you  and  I  shall  come  together.  I  hope, 
however,  that  the  period,  though  so  often  postponed,  is  not  far 
distant,  and  that  once  more  I  shall  behold  you,  and  experience  your 
power  to  make  winter  gay  and  sprightly. 

I  have  a  kitten,  my  dear,  the  drollest  of  all  creatures  that  ever 
•wore  a  cat's  skin.  Her  gambols  are  not  to  be  described,  and  woidd 
be  incredible,  if  they  could.  In  point  of  size  she  is  likely  to  be  a 
kitten  always,  being  extremely  small  of  her  age  ;  but  time,  I  sup- 
pose, that  spoils  every  thing,  will  make  her  also  a  cat.  You  will 
see  her,  I  hope,  before  that  melancholy  period  shall  arrive,  for  no 
■wisdom  that  she  may  gain  by  experience  and  reflection  hereafter, 
will  compensate  the  loss  of  her  present  hilarity.  She  is  dressed  in 
a  tortoise-shell  suit,  and  I  know  that  you  will  delight  in  her. 

Mrs.  Throckmorton  carries  us  to-morrow  in  her  chaise  to  Chi- 
Cheley.  The  event,  however,  must  be  supposed  to  depend  on  ele- 
ments, at  least  on  the  state  of  the  atmosphere,  which  is  turbulent 
beyond  measure.  Yesterday  it  thundered ;  last  night  it  lightned, 
and  at  three  this  morning  I  saw  the  sky  as  red  as  a  city  in  flames 
could  have  made  it.  I  have  a  leech  in  a  bottle  that  foretells  all 
these  prodigies  and  convulsions  of  nature.  No,  not  as  you  will  na- 
turally conjecture,  by  articulate  utterance  of  oracular  notices,  but 
by  a  variety  of  gesticulations,  which  here  I  have  not  room  to  give 
an  account  of.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  no  change  of  weather  sur- 
prises him,  and  that,  in  point  of  the  earliest  and  most  accurate  in- 
telligence, he  is  worth  all  the  barometers  in  the  world — >none  of 
them  all,  indeed,  can  make  the  least  pretence  to  foretell  thunder — a 
qpecies  of  capacity  of  which  he  has  given  the  most  unequivocal 
evidence.  I  gave  but  sixpence  for  him,  which  is  a  groat  more  than 
the  market  price,  though  he  is  in  fact,  or  rather  would  be,  if 
leeches  were  not  found  in  every  ditch,  an  invaluable  acquisition. 

vv.  c. 


THE  RETIRED  CAT.* 

r 

A  poet's  cat,  sedate  and  grave, 
As  poet  well  could  wish  to  have, 
Was  much  addicted  to  inquire 
For  nooks,  to  which  she  might  retire, 
And  where,  secure  as  mouse  in  chink, 
She  might  repose,  or  sit  and  think. 

*  ^'o/«  by  the  Editor. — As  the  kitten  mentioned  in  this  letter  wai  probably,  in  her  advanced 
life,  the  heroine  of  a  little  sportive  moral  poem,  it  may  be  introduced  perhaps  not  improperly 
hsre. 


"Jtv-" 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  145 

I  know  not  where  she  caught  the  trick- 
Nature  perhaps  herself  had  cast  her 
In  such  a  mould  fihilosofihique^ 
Or  else  she  learn'd  it  of  her  master. 
Sometimes  ascending  debonair, 
An  apple-ti-ee  or  lofty  pear, 
Lodg'd  with  convenience  in  the  fork, 
She  watch'd  the  gard'ner  at  his  work; 
Sometimes  her  ease  and  solace  sought 
In  an  old  empty  wat'ring  pet, 
There  wanting  nothing,  save  a  fan, 
To  seem  some  nymph  in  her  sedan, 
Apparell'd  in  cxactest  sort. 
And  ready  to  be  borne  to  court. 

But  love  of  change  it  seems  has  place 
Not  only  in  our  wiser  I'ace  ; 
Cats  also  feel  as  well  as  we 
That  passion's  force,  and  so  did  she. 
Her  climbing  she  began  to  find 
Expos'd  her  too  much  to  the  wind, 
And  the  old  utensil  of  tin 
Was  cold  and  comfortless  within: 
She  therefore  wish'd,  instead  of  those, 
Some  place  of  more  serene  repose. 
Where  neither  cold  might  come,  nor  air 
Too  rudely  wanton,  with  her  hair ; 
And  sought  it  in  the  likeliest  mode  '  f* 

Within  her  master's  snug  abode.  '!* 

A  draw'r,  it  ehanc'd,  at  bottom  lin'd 
With  linen  of  the  softest  kind, 
With  such  as  merchants  introduce 
From  India,  for  the  lady's  use  ; 
A  draw'r  impending  o'er  the  rest, 
Half  open  in  the  topmost  chest, 
Of  depth  enough,  and  none  to  spare, 
Invited  her  to  slumber  there. 
Puss,  with  delight  beyond  expression, 
Survey'd  the  scene,  and  took  possession. 
Recumbent  at  her  ease  ere  long. 
And  lull'd  by  her  own  hum-drum  song, 
She  left  the  cares  of  life  behind. 
And  slept  as  she  would  sleep  her  last ; 
I.  u 


146  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

When  in  came,  housewifely  inclin'd, 
The  chamber-maid,  and  shut  it  fast, 
By  no  malignity  impell'd, 
But  all  unconscious  whom  it  held. 

Awaken'd  by  the  shock  (cried  puss) 
"  Was  ever  cat  attended  thus  I 
"  The  open  draw'r  was  left,  I  see, 
*'  Merely  to  prove  a  nest  for  me ; 
^  "  For  soon  as  I  was  well  compos'd, 

*'  Then  came  the  maid,  and  it  was  clos'd. 

"  How  smooth  these  'kerchiefs,  and  how  swcetj 

*'  Oh  what  a  delicate  retreat  t 

*'  I  will  resign  myself  to  rest 

"  Till  Sol,  declining  in  the  west, 

*'  Shall  call  to  supper ;  when,  no  doubt, 

*'  Susan  will  come  and  let  me  out." 

The  evening  came,  the  sun  descended, 
And  puss  remain'd  still  unattended. 
The  night  roU'd  tardily  away, 
(With  her,  indeed,  'twas  never  day), 
The  sprightly  morn  her  course  renew'd, 
The  evening  grey  again  ensued, 
And  puss  came  into  mind  no  more 
Than  if  entomb'd  the  day  before. 
With  hunger  pinch'd,  and  pinch 'd  for  room, 
She  now  presag'd  approaching  doom, 
Nor  slept  a  single  wink,  or  purr'd, 
Conscious  of  jeopardy  incurr'd. 

That  night,  by  chance,  the  poet  watching, 
Heard  an  inexplicable  scratching ; 
His  noble  heart  went  pit-a-pat, 
And  to  himself  he  said — "  What's  that?" 
He  drew  the  curtain  at  his  side. 
And  forth  he  peep'd,  but  nothing  spied. 
Yet  by  his  ear  directed,  guess'd. 
Something  imprison'd  in  the  chest. 
And  doubtful  what,  with  prudent  care, 
Resolv'd  it  should  continue  there. 
At  length  a  voice,  which  well  he  knew, 
A  long  and  melancholy  mew. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  '^^ 

Saluting  his  poetic  ears, 

Consol'd  him,  and  dispell 'd  his  fears; 

He  left  his  bed,  he  trod  the  floor, 

He  'gan  in  haste  the  draw'rs  explore. 

The  lowest  first,  and  without  stop, 

The  rest  in  order  to  the  top. 

For  'tis  a  truth,  well  known  to  most, 

That  whatsoever  thing  is  lost, 

We  seek  it,  ere  it  come  to  light, 

In  ev'ry  cranny  but  the  right. 

Forth  skipp'd  the  Cat;  not  now  replete 

As  erst  with  airy  self-conceit. 

Nor  in  her  own  fond  apprehension, 

A  theme  for  all  the  world's  attention. 

But  modest,  sober,  cur'd  of  all 

Her  notions  hyperbolical, 

And  wishing  for  her  place  of  rest 

Any  thing  rather  than  a  chest. 

Then  stept  the  poet  into  bed 

With  this  reflection  in  his  head. 

MORAL. 
Beware  of  too  sublime  a  sense 
Of  your  own  worth  and  consequence  I 
The  man  who  dreams  himself  so  great, 
And  his  importance  of  such  weight. 
That  all  around,  in  all  that's  done, 
Must  move  an  act  for  him  alone, 
Will  learn,  in  school  of  tribulation, 
The  folly  of  his  expectation. 


LETTER  LXXVI. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esquire. 

Mv.  16,  ir87. 
I  thank  you  for  the  solicitude  that  you 
express  on  the  subject  of  my  present  studies.  The  work  is  un- 
doubtedly long  and  laborious,  but  it  has  an  end,  and  proceeding 
leisurely,  with  a  due  attention  to  the  use  of  air  and  exercise,  it  is 
posBible  that  I  may  live  to  finish  it.  Assure  yourself  of  one  thing, 
that  though  to  a  bystander  it  may  seem  an  occupation  surpassing 
the  powers  of  a  constitution  never  very  athletic,  and,  at  present, 
not  a  little  the  worse  for  wear,  I  can  invent  for  myself  no  employ- 
ment that  does  not  exhaust  my  spirits  more.    I  will  not  pretend  to 


148  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

account  for  this ;  I  will  only  say,  that  it  is  not  the  lan^age  of  pre< 
dilection  for  a  favourite  amusement,  but  that  the  fact  is  really  so. 
I  have  even  found  that  those  plaything  avocations  which  one  may 
execute  almost  without  any  attention,  fatigue  me,  and  Avear  me 
away,  while  such  as  engage  me  much,  and  attach  me  closely,  are 
ratlier  serviceable  to  me  than  otherwise, 

W.  C, 


LETTER  LXXVn. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge^  Ko-v.  2/,  1787. 
It  is  the  part  of  wisdom,  my  dearest 
cousin,  to  sit  down  contented  under  the  demands  of  necessity,  be- 
cause they  are  such.  I  am  sensible  that  you  cannot,  in  my  uncle'S' 
present  infirm  state,  and  of  which  it  is  not  possible  to  expect  any 
considerable  amendment,  indulge  either  us  or  j'ourself  with  a 
journey  to  Weston.  Yourself,  I  say,  both  because  I  know  it  will 
give  you  pleasure  to  see  Causidice  mi*  once  more,  especially  in' 
the  comfortable  abode  whei'e  you  have  placed  him,  and  because, 
after  so  long  an  imprisonment  in  London,  you,  who  love  the  coun- 
try and  have  a  taste  for  it,  would  of  course  be  glad  to  return  to  it. 
For  my  own  part,  to  me  it  is  ever  new;  and  though  I  have  now 
been  an  inhabitant  of  this  village  a  twelvemonth,  and  have,  during 
the  half  of  that  time,  been  at  liberty  to  expatiate,  and  to  make 
discoveries,  I  am  daily  finding  out  fresh  scenes  and  walks,  which 
you  would  never  be  satisfied  with  enjoying.  Some  of  them  are  un- 
approachable bv  you,  either  on  foot  or  in  ycur  carriage.  Had  you 
twenty  toes  (whereas  I  suppose  you  have  but  ten)  you  could  not 
reach  them ;  and  coach-wheels  have  never  been  seen  there  since 
the  flood.  Before  it,  indeed,  (as  Burnet  says  that  the  earth  was. 
then  perfectly  free  from  all  inequalities  in  its  surface)  they  might 
be  seen  there  every  day.  We  have  other  walks,  both  upon  hill  tops 
and  in  vallies  beneath,  some  of  which,  by  the  help  of  your  carriage, 
and  many  of  them  without  its  help,  would  be  always  at  your  com- 
mand. 

On  Monday  morning  last,  Sam  brought  me  word  that  there  was 
a  man  in  the  kitchen  who  desired  to  speak  with  me.  I  ordered  him 
in.  A  plain,  decent,  elderly  figure  made  its  appearance,  and  being 
desired  to  sit,  spoke  as  follows :  "  Sir,  I  am  clerk  of  the  parisli  of 
All-Saints  in  Northampton  ;  brother  of  Mr.  C.  the  upholsterer. 
It  is  customary  for  the  person  in  my  office  to  annex  to  a  bill  of 

*  The  appellation  whick  Sir  Thomas  Heskcth  used  to  give  him  in  jest,  when  he  was  of  the 
Temple. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  1^ 

mortalitv  which  he  publishes  at  Christmas,  a  copy  of  verses.  You 
would  do  me  a  great  favour,  Sir,  if  you  would  furnish  me  with 
one."  To  this  I  replied,  "  Mr.  C.  you  have  several  men  of  genius 
in  your  town,  why  have  you  not  applied  to  some  of  them?  there  is 

a   namesake  of  yours  in  particular,  C ,  the  statuaiy,  who, 

cveiy  bodv  knows,  is  a  first-rate  maker  of  verses.  He  surely  is 
the  man  of  all  the  world  for  your  purpose."  "  Alas!  Sir,  I  have 
heretofore  borrowed  help  from  him,  but  he  is  a  gentleman  of  so 
much  reading  that  the  people  of  our  town  cannot  understand  him." 
I  confess  to  you,  my  dear,  I  felt  all  the  force  of  the  compliment  im- 
plied in  this  speech,  and  was  almost  ready  to  answer,  Perhaps,  my 
good  friend,  the\'  may  find  me  unintelligible  too  for  the  same  reason. 
But  on  asking  him  whether  he  had  walked  over  to  \^"cstnn  on  pur- 
pose to  implore  the  assistance  of  my  muse,  and  on  his  replying  in 
the  affirmative,  I  felt  my  mortified  vanity  a  little  consoled,  and 
pitying  the  poor  man's  distress,  which  appeared  to  be  considerable, 
promised  to  suppl)-  him.  The  waggon  has  accordingly  gone  this 
day  to  Northampton,  loaded,  in  part,  with  my  effusions  in  the  mor- 
tuary stile.  A  fig  for  poets  who  write  epitaphs  upon  individuals  J 
I  have  written  one  that  serves  two  hundred  persons. 

A  few  days  since  I  received  a  second  very  obliging  letter  from 

Mr.  M .     He  tells  me  that  liis  own  papers,  which  are  by  far, 

he  is  sorry  to  say  it,  the  most  numerous,  arc  marked  V.  I.  Z.  Ac- 
cordingly, ray  dear,  I  am  happy  to  find  that  I  am  engaged  in  a 
correspondence  with  Mr.  Viz,  a  gentleman  forAvhom  I  have  always 
entertained  the  profoundest  veneration.  But  the  serious  fact  is, 
that  the  papers  distinguislied  by  those  signatures  have  ever  j)Ieased 
me  most,  and  struck  me  as  the  work  of  a  sensible  man,  Vi'ho  knows 
the  world  well,  and  has  more  of  Addison's  delicate  humour  than 
any  body. 

A  poor  man  begged  food  at  the  Hall  lately.  The  cook  gaAc 
him  some  Vermicelli  soup.  He  ladled  it  about  some  time  with  the 
spoon,  and  then  returned  it  to  her,  saying,  "  I  am  a  poor  man  it  is 
true,  and  I  am  very  hungry,  but  yet  I  cannot  eat  broth  with  mag- 
gots in  it."  Once  more,  my  dear,  a  thousand  thanks  for  your  box 
full  of  good  things,  useful  things,  and  beautiful  things. 

Ever  yours,  W.  C. 


LETTER  LXXVIII. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodi^c,  Dec.  4,  1787. 

I  am  glad,  my  dearest  coz.  that  my  last 

letter  proved  so  diverting.     You  may  assure  yourself  of  the  literal 


150  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

truth  of  the  whole  narration,  and  that  however  droll,  it  -was  not 
in  the  least  indebted  to  any  embellishments  of  mine. 

You  say  well,  my  dear,  that  in  Mr.  Throckmorton  we  have  a 
peerless  neighbour ;  we  have  so.  In  point  of  information  upon  all 
important  subjects,  in  respect,  too,  of  expression  and  address,  and, 
in  short,  every  thing  that  enters  into  the  idea  of  a  gentleman,  I 
have  not  found  his  equal  (not  often)  any  where.  Were  I  asked, 
who  in  my  judgment  approaches  the  nearest  to  him,  in  al>  his 
amiable  qualities  and  qualifications,  I  should  certainly  answer,  his 
brother  George,  who,  if  he  be  not  his  exact  counterpart,  endued 
with  precisely  the  same  measure  of  the  same  accomplishments,  is 
nevertheless  deficient  in  none  of  them,  and  is  of  a  character  singu- 
larly agreeable,  in  respect  of  a  certain  manly,  I  had  almost  said 
heroic  frankness,  with  which  his  air  strikes  one  almost  immedi- 
ately. So  far  as  his  opportunities  have  gone,  he  has  ever  been  as 
friendly  and  obliging  to  us  as  we  could  wish  him ;  and  were  he 
Lord  of  the  Hall  to-morrow,  would,  I  dare  say,  conduct  himself 
toward  us  in  such  a  manner  as  to  leave  us  as  little  sensible  as  pos- 
sible of  the  removal  of  its  present  owners.  But  all  this  I  say,  my 
dear,  merely  for  the  sake  of  stating  the  matter  as  it  is;  not  in  or- 
der to  obviate,  or  to  prove  the  inexpedience  of  any  fiiture  plans 
of  yours,  concerning  the  place  of  our  residence.  Providence  and 
time  shape  every  thing  ;  I  should  rather  say  Providence  alone,  for 
time  has  often  no  hand  in  the  wonderful  changes  that  we  experi- 
ence ;  they  take  place  in  a  monicnt.  It  is  not,  therefore,  worth 
Avhile,  perhaps,  to  consider  much  what  we  will,  or  will  not  do  in 
years  to  come,  concerning  which  all  that  I  can  say  with  certainty 
at  present  is,  that  those  years  will  be  to  me  the  most  welcome,  in 
which  I  can  see  the  most  of  you.  VV.  C. 


LETTER  LXXIX. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Dec.  10,  1787. 
I  thank  you  for  the  snip  of  cloth,  com- 
monly called  a  pattern.     At  present  I  have  two  coats,  and  but  one 
back.     If  at  any  time  hereafter  I  should  find  myself  possessed  of 
fewer  coats,  or  more  backs,  it  will  be  of  use  to  me. 

Even  as  you  suspect,  my  dear,  so  it  proved.  The  ball  was  pre- 
pared for,  the  ball  was  held,  and  the  ball  passed,  and  we  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  Mrs.  Throckmorton  knowing  our  trim,  did 
not  give  us  the  pain  of  an  invitation,  for  a  pain  it  would  have  been. 
And  why  ?  as  Sternhold  says :  because,  as  Hopkins  answers,  we 
must  have  refused  it.    But  it  fell  out  singularly  enough,  tliat  this 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  151 

ball  was  held  of  all  days  in  the  year,  on  my  birth-day— and  so  I 
told  them — but  not  till  it  was  all  o\'er. 

Though  I  have  thought  proper  never  to  take  any  notice  of  the 
arrival  of  my  MSS.  together  with  the  other  good  thitigs  in  the  box, 
yet  certain  it  is  that  I  received  them.  I  have  furbished  up  the  tenth 
book  till  it  is  as  bright  as  silver,  and  am  now  occupied  in  bestowing 
the  same  labour  upon  the  eleventh.     The   twelfth  and  thirteenth 

are  in  tlie  hands  of ,  and  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  are  ready 

to  succeed  them.  This  notable  job  is  the  delight  of  my  heart,  and 
how  sorry  shall  I  be  when  it  is  ended ! 

The  smith  and  the  carpenter,  my  dear,  are  both  in  the  room 
hanging  a  bell.  If  I  therefore  make  a  thousand  blunders,  let  the 
said  intru'lers  answer  for  them  all. 

I  thank  you,  my  dear,  for  your  history  of  the  G s.     What 

changes  in  that  famih  1  And  how  many  thousand  families  have,  in 
the  same  time,  experienced  changes  as  violent  as  theirs  1  The  course 
of  a  rapid  river  isthe  justestof  all  emblems  to  express  the  variable- 
ness of  our  scene  below.  Shakspeare  says,  none  ever  bathed 
himself  twice  in  the  same  stream  ;  and  it  is  equally  true,  tliat  the 
world  upon  which  we  close  our  eyes  at  night,  is  never  the  same 
with  that  on  which  we  open  them  in  the  morning. 

I  do  not  always  say,  '  Give  my  love  to  my  uncle,'  because  he 
knows  that  I  always  love  him.  I  do  not  always  present  Mrs.  Un- 
win's  love  to  you,  partly  for  the  same  reason,  (deuce  take  the  smith 
and  the  carpenter)  and  partly  because  I  sometimes  forget  it.  But 
to  present  my  own  I  forget  never,  for  I  always  have  to  finish  my 
letter,  which  I  know  not  how  to  do,  my  dearest  coz.  without  teUing 
you  that  I  am  ever  yours. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  LXXX. 
I'o  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

Weston,  Dec.  13,  1787. 
LT^nless  my  memory  deceives  me,  I  fore- 
warned you  that  I  should  prove  a  very  xmpunctual  correspondent. 
The  work  that  lies  before  me  engages,  unavoidably,  my  whole  at- 
tention. The  length  of  it,  the  spirit  of  it,  and  the  exactness  that 
is  requisite  to  its  due  performance,  are  so  many  most  interesting 
subjects  of  consideration  to  me,  who  find  that  my  best  attempts  are 
only  introductory  to  others,  and  that  what  to-day  I  suppose  finished, 
to-morrow  I  must  Ijcgin  again.  Thus  it  fares  with  a  translator  of 
Homer.  To  exhibit  the  majesty  of  such  a  poet  in  a  modern  lan- 
guage is  a  task  that  no  man  can  estimate  the  difficulty  of  till  he  at- 


152  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

tempts  it.  To  paraphrase  him  loosely,  to  hang  him  with  trapping^t 
that  do  not  belong  to  him — all  this  is  comparati\'ely  easy.     But  to 
represent  him  with  only  his  own  ornaments,  and  still  to  preserve 
his  dignity,  is  a  labour  that,  if  I  hope  in  any  measure  to  achieve  it, 
I  am  sensible  can  only  be  achieved  by  the  most  assiduous  and  most 
unremitting  attention.     Our  studies,  hov/ever  different  in  them- 
selves, in  respect  of  the  means  by  which  they  are  to  be  success- 
fLilly  carried  on,  bear  some  resemblance  to  each  other.     A  perse- 
verance that  nothing  can  discourage,  a  minuteness  of  observation 
that  suffers  nothing  to  escape,  and  a  determination  not  to  be  se- 
duced from  the  straight  line  that  lies  before  u;;,  by  a;ny  images  with 
which  fancy  may  present  us,  are  essentials  that  should  be  common 
to  us  both.     There  are,  perhaps,  few  arduous  undertakings  that 
are  not,  in  fact,  more  arduous  than  we  at  first  supposed  them. 
As  we  proceed,  difficulties  increase  upon  us,  but  our  hopes  gather 
strength  also ;  and  we  conquer  difficulties  which,  could  we  have 
foreseen  them,  we  should  never  have  had  the  boldness  to  encounter. 
May  this  be  your  experience,  as  I  doubt  not  that  it  will.    You  pos- 
sess, by  nature,  all  that  is  necessary  to  success  in  the  profession 
that    you  have  chosen.     What  remains  is  in  your  own  power. 
They  say  of  poets  that  they  must  be  born  such :  so  must  mathe- 
maticians, so  must  great  generals,  and  so  must  lawj-ers,  and  so, 
indeed,  must  men  of  all  denominations,  or  it  is  not  possible  that 
they  should  excel.     But  with  whatever  faculties  we  are  born,  and 
to  whatever  studies  our  genius  may  direct  us,  studies  they  must 
still  be.     I  am  persuaded  that  Milton  did  not  write  his  Paradise 
Lost,  nor  Homer  his  Iliad,  nor  Newton  his  Principia,  without  im- 
mense labour.     Nature  gave  them  a  bias  to  their  respective  pur- 
suits, and  that  strong  propensity,  I  suppose,  is  what  we  mean  by 
genius.     The  rest  they  gave  themselves.     "  Macte  esto,"  there- 
fore, have  no  fears  for  the  issue  ! 

I  have  had  a  second  kind  letter  from  your  friend  Mr.  , 

which  I  ha\'e  just  answered.  I  must  not,  I  find,  hope  to  see  him 
here,  at  least  I  must  not  much  expect  it.  He  has  a  family  that 
does  not  permit  him  to  fly  Southward.  I  have  also  a  notion  that 
•we  three  could  spend  a  few  days  comfortably  together,  especially 
in  a  country  like  this,  abounding  in  scenes  with  which  I  am  sure 
you  would  both  be  delighted.  Having  lived  till  lately  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  spot  that  I  now  inhabit,  and  having  never  been  mas- 
ter of  any  sort  of  vehicle  whatever,  it  is  but  just  now  that  I  begin 
myself  to  be  acquainted  with  the  beauties  of  our  situation.  To  you 
I  may  hope  one  time  or  other  to  show  them,  and  shall  be  happy  to 
do  it  when  an  opportunity  offers. 

Yours,  most  affectionately,  W.  C» 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  153 

LETTER  LXXXL 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Jan.  1,  1^88. 
Now  for  another  story  alnvost  incredible  ! 
A  story,  that  would  be  quite  such,  if  it  was  not  certain  that  you 
give  me  credit  for  any  thing.     I  have  read  the  poem  for  the  sake 
of  which  you  sent  the  paper,  and  was  much  entertained  by  it.  You 
think  it,  perhaps,  as  very  well  you  may,  the  only  piece  ot  that  kind 
that  was  ever  produced.     It  is  indeed  original,  for  I  dare  say  Mr. 
Merry  never  saw  mine ;  but  certainly  it  \i  not  unique.     For  most 
true  it  is,  my  dear,  that  ten  jears  shice,  having  a  letter  to  write  to 
a  friend  of  mine,  to  whom  I  could  write  any  thing,  I  filled  a  whole 
sheet  with  a   composition,  both  in  measure  and  in  manner,  pre- 
cisely similar.     I  have  in  vain  searched  for  it.     It  is  cither  burnH 
or  lost.     Could  I  have  found  it,  you  would  have  had  double  post- 
age to  pay.     For  that  one  man  in  Italy,  and  another  in  England, 
who  never  saw  each  other,  should  stumble  on  a  species  of  verse, 
in  which  no  other  man  ever  wrote,  (and  I  believe  that  to  be  the 
case)  and  upon  a  stile  and  manner  too,  of  which  I  suppose  that 
neither  of  them  had  ever  seen  an  example,  appears  to  me  so  extra- 
ordinary a  fact,  that  I  must  have  sent  you  mine,  whatever  it  had 
cost  you,  and  am  really  vexed  that  I  cannot  authenticate  the  story 
by  producing  a  voucher.     The  measure  I  recollect  to  ha\e  been 
perfectly  the  same  ;  and  as  to  the  manner,  I  am  equally  sure  of  that, 
and  from  this  circumstance,  that  Mrs.  L^^nwin  and  I  never  laughed 
more  at  an}-  production  of  mine,  perhaps  not  even  at  John  Gilpin. 
But  for  all  this,  my  de?.r,  you  must,  as  I  said,  give  me  credit ;  for 
tlic  thing  itself  is  gone  to  that  limbo  of  vanity,  where  alone,  says 
Milton,  things  lost  on  earth  are  to  be  met  with.     Said  limbo  is,  as 
you  know,  in  the  moon,  whither  I  could  not  at  present  convey  my- 
self Avithout  a  good  deal  of  difficulty  and  inconvenience. 

This  morning,  being  the  morning  of  New  Year's  Day,  I  sent  to 
the  Hall  a  copy  of  verses,  addressed  to  Mr.  Throckmorton,  en- 
titled, The  Wish,  or  the  Poet's  New  Year's  Gift.  \Wq.  dine  there 
to-morrow,  when,  I  suppose,  I  shall  hear  news  of  them.  Their 
kindness  is  so  great,  and  they  seize  with  such  eagerness  every  op- 
portunity of  doing  all  they  think  will  please  us,  that  I  held  myself 
almost  in  duty  bound  to  treat  them  with  this  stroke  of  my  pro- 
fession. 

The  small-pox  has  done,  I  believe,  all  that  it  has  to  do  at  Wes- 
ton. Old  fol'^s,  and  even  women  with  child,  ha\e  been  inocu- 
lated. W^e  talk  of  our  freedom,  and  some  of  us  are  free  enough, 
kut  not  the  poor.    Dependent  as  they  arc  upo]i  parisli  bounty,  they 

VOL.  I.  V 


154  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

are  sometimes  obliged  to  submit  to  impositions  which,  perhaps,  iit 
France  itself,  could  hardly  be  parallelled.  Can  man  or  woman  be 
said  to  be  free,  Avho  is  commanded  to  take  a  distemper,  sometimes 
at  least  mortal,  and  in  circumstances  most  likely  to  make  it  so  ? 
No  circumstance  whatever  was  permitted  to  exempt  the  inhabit- 
ants of  Weston.  The  old  as  well  as  the  young,  and  the  pregnant 
as  well  as  they  who  had  only  themselves  within  them,  have  beea 
inoculated.  Were  I  asked  who  is  the  most  arbitrary  sovereign  en 
earth,  I  should  answer,  neither  the  King  of  France,  nor  the  Grand 
Signior,  but  an  overseer  of  the  poor  in  England. 

I  am,  as  heretofore,  occupied  with  Homer  :  my  present  occupa- 
tion is  the  revisal  of  all  I  have  done,  viz.  of  the  first  fifteen  books. 
I  stand  amazed  at  my  own  increasing  dexterity  in  the  business,  be- 
ing verily  persuaded  that,  as  far  as  I  have  gone,  I  have  improved 
the  work  to  double  its  former  value. 

That  )-ou  may  begin  the  new  year,  and  end  it  in  all  health  and 
hpppiness,  and  many  more  when  the  present  shall  have  been  long 
an  old  one,  is  the  ardent  wish  of  Mrs.  Unwin,  and  of  yours,  my 
dearest  Coz.  most  cordially,  W.  C. 


LETTER  LXXXn. 

To    Lady    HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Jan,  19,  1788. 
WHien  I  have  prose  enough  to  fill  my 
paper-  which  is  always  the  case  when  I  write  to  you,  I  cannot  find 
in  my  heart  to  give  a  third  part  of  it  to  verse.  Yet  this  I  must 
do,  or  I  must  make  my  pacquets  more  costly  than  worshipful,  by 
doubling  the  postage  upon  you,  which  I  should  hold  to  be  unrea- 
sonable. See,  then,  the  true  reason  why  I  did  not  send  you  that 
same  scribblement  till  you  desired  it.  The  thought  which  natu- 
rally presents  itself  to  me  on  all  such  occasions  is  thi? — Is  not  your 
cousin  coming?  Why  are  you  impatient?  Will  it  not  be  time 
enough  to  show  her  your  fine  things  when  she  arrives  ? 

Fine  things,  indeed,  I  have  few.  He  who  has  Homer  to  tran- 
scribe may  well  be  contented  to  do  little  else.  As  when  an  ass, 
being  harnessed  with  ropes  to  a  sand-cai-t,  drags  with  hanging  ears 
his  heavy  burthen,  neither  filling  the  long  echoing  streets  with  his. 
harmonious  bray,  nor  throv/ing  up  his  heels  behind,  frolicksome 
and  airy,  as  asses  less  engaged  are  wont  to  do  ;  so  I,  satisfied  to 
find  myself  intlispensibly  obliged  to  render  into  the  best  possible 
English  metre,  eight  and  forty  Greek  books,  of  which  the  two 
finest  poems  in  the  world  consist,  account  it  quite  sufficient  if  I 
may  at  last  achieve  that  labour,  and  seldom  allow  myself  thos* 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  ISS 

'pretty  little  vagaries  in  vvhicli  I  should  otherwise  delight,  and  of 
^hich,  if  I  should  live  long  enough,  1  intend  hereafter  to  enjoy 
my  fill. 

This  is  the  reason,  my  dear  cousin,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to 
call  you  so  in  the  same  breath  with  which  I  have  uttered  this  truly 
heroic  comparison — this  is  the  reason  why  I  produce,  at  present, 
but  few  occasional  poems ;  and  the  preceding  reason  is  that  which 
may  account  satisfactorily  enough  for  my  withholding  tlie  very  few 
that  I  do  produce.  A  thought  sometimes  strikes  me  before  I  rise : 
if  it  runs  readily  into  verse,  and  I  can  finish  it  before  breakfast,  it 
is  well ;  otherwise  it  dies,  and  is  forgotten ;  for  all  the  subsequent 
hours  are  devoted  to  Homer. 

The  day  before  yesterday  I  saw,  for  the  first  time,  Bunbury's 
new  print,  the  Propagation  of  a  Lie.  Mr.  Throckmorton  sent  it 
for  the  amusement  of  our  party.  Bunbury  sells  humour  by  the 
yard,  and  is,  I  suppose,  the  first  vender  of  it  who  ever  did  so.  He 
cannot,  therefore,  be  said  to  have  humour  without  measure,  (par- 
don a  pun,  my  dear,  from  a  man  who  has  not  made  one  before 
these  forty  years)  though  he  may  certainly  be  said  to  be  immea- 
surably droll. 

The  original  thought  is  good,  and  the  exemplification  of  it  in 
those  very  expressive  figures,  admirable.  A  poem  on  the  same 
subject,  displaying  all  that  is  displayed  in  those  attitudes  and  in 
those  features  (for  faces  they  can  hardly  be  called)  would  be  most 
excellent.  The  affinity  of  the  two  arts,  viz.  verse  and  painting, 
has  been  often  observed:  possibly  the  happiest  illustration  of  it 
would  be  found,  if  some  poet  would  ally  himself  to  some  draftsman, 
as  Bunbury,  and  undertake  to  write  every  thing  he  should  draw. 
Then  let  a  musician  be  admitted  of  the  party.  He  should  compose 
said  poem,  adapting  notes  to  it  exactly  accommodated  to  the 
theme :  so  should  the  sister  arts  i)e  proved  to  be  indeed  sisters, 
and  the  world  would  die  of  laughing. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  LXXXIIL 

To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Jan.  :iO,  1788. 
My  dearest  Cousin, 

It  is  a  fortnight  since  I  heard  from  you, 
that  is  to  say,  a  week  longer  than  you  have  accustomed  me  to  wait 
for  a  letter.  I  do  not  forget  that  you  have  recommended  it  to  me, 
on  occasions  somewhat  similar,  to  banish  all  anxiety,  and  to  as- 
cribe your  silence  only  to  the  interruptions  of  company.    Good  ad- 


1S6  LIFE  OF  COWPER; 

Vice,  my  dear,  but  not  easily  taken  by  a  man  circumstJitiCed  as  1 
am.  I  have  learned  in  the  school  of  adversity,  a  school  from 
which  I  have  no  expectation  that  I  shall  ever  be  dismissed,  to  ap- 
prehend the  worst,  and  have  ever  found  it  ihe  only  course  in 
which  I  can  indu'ge  myself  without  the  least  danger  of  incurring  a 
disappointment.  This  kind  of  experience,  ccntinued  through 
many  years,  has  given  me  such  an  habitual  bias  to  the  g'oomy  side 
of  every  thing,  that  I  never  have  a  moment's  ease  en  any  subject 
to  which  I  am  not  indifferent.  How,  then,  can  I  be  easy  when  I  am 
left  aflo.it  upon  a  sea  of  endless  conjectures,  of  which  you  furnish 
the  occasion  ?  Write,  J  beseech  you,  and  do  not  forget  that  I  am 
now  a  battered  actor  upon  this  turbuent  s-tage  :  that  what  iittle 
vigour  of  mind  I  ever  had,  of  the  self-supporting  kind  I  mean,  has 
long  since  been  broken  ;  and  that  though  I  can  bear  nothing  well, 
yet  any  thing  better  than  a  state  of  ignorance  concerning  ycur 
■ft^elfare.  I  have  spent  hours  in  the  night  leaning  upon  my  elbow, 
and  wondering  what  your  silence  means.  I  intreat  you  once  more 
to  put  an  end  to  these  speculations,  which  cost  me  more  animal 
spirits  than  I  can  spare :  jf  you  cannot,  without  great  trouble  to 
yourself,  (which,  in  ycur  situation,  may  very  possibly  be  ihe  case,) 
contrive  opportunities  of  writing  so  frequent. y  as  usual,  only  say 
it,  and  I  am  content.  I  will  wait,  if  you  desire  it,  as  long  for  every 
letter  ;  but  then  let  them  arrive  at  the  period  once  fixed,  exactly 
at  the  time,  for  my  patience  will  not  hold  out  an  hour  beyond  it. 

W.  C, 


J.ETTER   LXXXIV. 
To   Lady   HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Feb.  1,  1788. 
Pardon  me,  my  dearest  cousin,  the 
jnournfid  ditty  that  I  sent  you  last.  There  are  times  when  I  see 
every  tiling  through  a  medium  that  distresses  me  to  an  insupport- 
able degree,  and  that  letter  v/as  written  in  one  of  them.  A  fog 
that  had  for  three  days  obliterated  all  the  beauties  of  Weston,  and 
a  north-east  wind,  might  possibly  contribute  not  a  little  to  the  me- 
lancholy that  indited  it.  But  my  mind  is  now  easy  ;  your  letter  has 
made  it  so  ;  and  I  feel  myself  as  blithe  as  a  bird  in  comparison.  I 
love  you,  my  cousin,  and  cannot  suspect,  either  with  or  without 
cause,  the  least  evil  in  which  you  may  be  concerned,  without  be- 
ing greatly  troubled. '  Oh  trouble  !  the  portion  of  ail  mortals,  but 
mine  in  particular.  Would  I  had  never  known  tiiee,  or  could  bid 
thee  farewell  for  ever  ;  for  I  meet  tliee  at  every  turn,  my  pillows 
9re  stuffed  with  thee,  my  very  roses  snie'l  of  thee,  and  even  my 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  157 

*:cmsin,  who  would  cure  me  of  all  trniblc  if  sl>e  could,  is  some- 
times innocently  the  cause  of  trouble  to  me. 

I  now  see  the  unreasonableness  of  my  late  trouble,  and  would,  if 
I  could  trust  myself  so  far,  promise  never  Mgain  to  trouble  either 
myself  or  you  in  the  same  manner,  unless  warranted  by  some 
m^re  substantial  ground  of  apprehension. 

What  I  said  concerning  Homer,  my  dear,  was  spoken,  or  rather 
written,  merely  under  the  influence  of  a  certain  jocu'arity  that  I 
felt  at  that  moment.  I  am,  in  reality,  so  far  from  thinking  my- 
self an  ass,  and  my  translation  a  sand-ort,  thifc  I  rather  seem,  in 
my  own  account  of  the  matter,  one  of  those  flaming  steeds  har- 
nessed to  the  chariot  of  Apollo,  of  which  we  read  in  the  works  of 
the  ancients.  I  have  lately,  I  know  not  ho-.v,  acquired  a  certain 
superiority  to  myself  in  this  business,  and  in  this  last  revisal  have 
elevated  the  expression  to  a  degree  far  surpassing  its  former  boast. 
A  few  evenings  since  I  had  an  opportunity  to  try  how  far  I  might 
venture  to  expect  such  success  of  my  labours  as  can  alone  repay 
them,  by  reading  the  first  book  of  my  Iliad  to  a  friend  of  ours.  He 
dined  with  you  once  at  OIney.  His  name  is  Greatheed,  a  man  of 
letters  and  of  taste.  He  dined  with  us,  and  the  evening  proving 
dark  and  dirty,  we  persuaded  him  to  take  a  bed. 

I  entertained  him  as  I  tell  you.  He  heard  me  with  great  atten- 
tion, and  with  evident  symptoms  of  the  highest  satisfaction,  which, 
•when  I  had  finished  the  exhibition,  he  put  out  of  all  doubt  by  cx- 
pressi'^ns,  which  I  cannot  repeat.  Only  this  he  said  to  Mrs.  Un- 
win,  while  I  was  in  another  room,  that  he  had  never  entered  into 
the  spirit  of  Homer  before,  nor  had  any  thing  like  a  due  concep- 
tion of  his  manner.  This  I  have  said,  knowing  that  it  will  please 
you,  and  will  now  say  no  more. 

Adieu !  my  dear,  will  you  never  speak  of  coming  to  Weston 
fncre?  W.  C. 


LETTER  LXXXV. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

T/ie  Lodge,  Feb.  14,  \7&S. 
M'y  DEAR  Sir, 

Though  it  be  long  since  I  received  your 
last,  I  have  not  yet  forgotten  the  impression  it  made  upcn  me,  nor 
how  sensibly  I  felt  myself  obliged  by  your  unreserved  and  friendly 
communications.  I  will  not  apologize  for  my  silence  in  the  in- 
terim, because,  apprized  as  you  are  of  my  present  occupation,  the 
excuse  that  I  might  allege  will  present  itself  to  ycu  of  ccurtc, 
and  to  dilate  upon  it  woukl  therefore  be  waste  of  papci*. 


158      •  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

You  are  in  possession  of  the  best  security  imaginable  for  the 
due  improvement  of  your  time,  Avhich  is  a  just  sense  of  its  value. 
Had  I  been,  when  at  your  age,  as  much  affected  by  that  important 
consideration  as  I  am  at  present,  I  should  not  have  devoted,  as  I 
did,  all  the  earliest  part  of  my  life  to  amusement  only.  I  am 
now  in  the  predicament  into  which  the  thoughtlessness  of  youth 
betrays  nine-tenths  of  mankind,  who  never  discover  that  the 
health  and  good  spirits  which  generally  accompany  it,  are,  in  re- 
ality, blessings  only  according  to  the  use  we  make  of  them,  till 
advanced  years  begin  to  threaten  them  with  the  loss  of  both.  How 
much  wiser  would  thousands  have  been,  than  now  they  ever  will 
be,  had  a  puny  constitution,  or  some  occasional  infirmity,  con- 
strained them  to  devote  those  hours  to  study  and  reflection,  which, 
for  want  of  some  such  check,  they  have  given  entirely  to  dissipa- 
tion! I,  therefore,  accovmt  you  happy,  who,  young  as  you  are, 
need  not  to  be  informed  that  ycu  cannot  always  be  so,  and  who 
already  know,  that  the  materials  uprn  which  age  can  alone  build 
its  comfort,  should  be  brought  together  at  an  earlier  period.  You 
have,  indeed,  losing  a  father,  lost  a  friend,  but  you  have  not  lost 
his  instructions.  His  example  was  not  buried  with  him,  but  hap- 
pily for  you,  (happily,  because  you  are  desiroiis  to  avail  yourself  of 
it)  still  lives  in  your  remembrance,  and  is  cherished  in  your  best 
affections. 

Your  last  letter  was  dated  from  the  house  of  a  gentleman  who 

was,  I  believe,  my  school-fellow ;  for  the  Mr.  C ■  who  lived  at 

Watford  while  I  had  any  connection  with  Hartfordshire,  must  have 
been  tlie  father  of  the  present,  and,  according  to  his  age  and  the 
state  of  his  health  when  I  saw  him  last,  must  have  been  long  dead. 
I  never  was  acquainted  with  the  family  further  than  by  report, 
which  always  spoke  honourably  of  them,  though  in  all  my  journies 
to  and  from  my  father's  1  must  have  passed  the  door.  The  cir- 
cumstance, however,  reminds  me  of  the  beautiful  reflection  of 
Glaucus  in  the  sixth  Iliad ;  beautiful  as  well  for  the  affecting  nature 
of  the  observation,  as  for  the  justness  of  the  comparison  and  the 
incomparable  simplicity  of  the  expression.  I  feel  that  I  shall  not 
be  satisfied  without  transcribing  it,  and  yet,  perhaps,  my  Greek 
may  be  difficult  to  decypher. 

T n'\i^ov(yci  ^vei,   iot,po;  d    iirtyiyvircn  u^yi', 
Qi  ayj^fuiv  7'SV£*!,   »  //£v  ^vn,    ri  0^  a.voXr,yn. 

Excuse  this  piece  of  pedantry  in  a  man  Avhose  Homer  is  always 
bcfcTe  him.     ^Vhat  would  I  give  that  he  were  living  new,  and 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  159 

■<^'itllin  my  reach  !  I,  of  all  men  living,  have  the  best  excuse  for 
indulging  such  a  wish,  unreasonable  as  it  may  seem;  for  I  have  no 
doubt  that  the  fire  of  his  eye,  and  the  smile  of  his  iips,  would  put 
me  now  and  then  in  possession  of  his  full  meaning  more  efFectually 
than  any  commentator.  I  return  you  many  thanks  for  the  elegies 
which  you  sent  me,  both  which  I  think  deserving  of  much  com- 
mendation. I  should  requite  you  but  ill  by  sending  you  my  mor- 
tuary verses,  neither  at  present  can  I  prevail  on  myself  to  do  it, 
having  no  frank,  and  being  conscious  that  they  are  not  worth 
carriage  without  one.  I  have  one  copy  left,  and  that  copy  I  will 
keep  for  you. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  LXXXVL 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Feb.  16,  1788. 
I  have  now  three  letters  of  yours,  my 
dearest  cousin,  before  me,  all  written  in  the  space  of  a  week,  and 
must  be,  indeed,  insensible  of  kindness,  did  I  not  feel  yours  on  this 
occasion.  I  cannot  describe  to  you,  neither  could  you  compre- 
hend it  if  I  should,  the  manner  in  which  my  mind  is  sometimes 
impressed  with  melancholy  on  particular  subjects.  Your  late  si- 
lence was  such  a  subject.  I  heard,  saw,  and  felt  a  thousand  ter- 
rible things,  which  had  no  real  existence,  and  was  haunted  by 
them  night  and  day,  till  they  at  last  extorted  from  me  the  doleful 
epistle  which  I  have  since  wished  had  been  burned  before  I  sent  it. 
But  the  cloud  has  passed,  and,  as  far  as  you  are  concerned,  my 
heart  is  once  more  at  rest. 

Before  you  gave  me  the  hint,  I  had  once  or  twice,  as  I  lay  on 
my  bed,  watching  the  break  of  day,  ruminated  on  the  subject 
which,  in  your  last  but  one,  you  recommend  to  me. 

Slavery,  or  a  release  from  slavery,  such  as  the  poor  Negroes 
have  endui-ed,  or  perhaps  both  these  topics  together,  appeared  to 
me  a  theme  so  important  at  the  present  juncture,  and  at  the  same 
time  so  susceptil)le  of  poetical  management,  that  I  more  than  once 
perceived  myself  ready  to  strirt  in  that  career,  could  I  have  al- 
lowed myself  to  desert  Homer  for  so  long  a  time  as  it  would  have 
cost  mc  to  do  them  justice. 

While  I  was  pondering  these  things,  the  public  prints  informed 
mc  that  Miss  More  was  on  the  point  of  publication,  having  actually 
finished  what  I  had  not  yet  begun. 

Tlic  sight  of  her  advertisement  convinced  me  that  my  best  course 
would  be  that  to  which  I  felt  myself  most  inclined,  to  persevere, 


ISO  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

V'itliout  turning  aside  to  attend  to  any  other  call,  however  alluring^ 
in  the  business  that  I  haA'c  in  hand. 

It  occnri'cd  to  me,  likewise,  that  I  have  already  borne  my  tes- 
timony in  favour  of  my  bl  ck  brethren,  and  that  I  was  one  of  the 
earliest,  if  not  the  first  of  those  who  have,  in  the  present  day, 
expressed  their  detestr.tion  of  the  diabolical  traffic  in  question. 

On  all  these  accounts  I  judged  it  best  to  be  silent,  and  especially 
because  I  cannot  dcubt  that  some  effectual  measures  will  now  be 
taken  to  alleviate  the  miseries  of  their  condition,  the  who'.e  nation 
being  in  possession  of  the  case,  and  it  being  impossible  also  to 
allege  an  argument  in  behalf  of  man-merchandize  tli.it  can  de- 
ser\"e  a  hearing.  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  Hannah  More's  poem :  she 
is  a  favourite  writer  with  me,  and  has  more  ner\'e  and  energy, 
both  in  her  thoughts  and  language,  than  half  the  he-rhymers  in  the 
kmgdom.  The  Thoughts  on  the  Manners  of  the  Gi-eat  will  like- 
wise be  most  acceptable,  I  want  to  learn  as  much  of  the  woi-ld  asi 
I  can,  but  to  acquire  that  learning  at  a  distance ;  and  a  book  with, 
such  a  title  promises  fair  to  serve  the  purpose  effectually. 

I  recommend  it  to  you,  my  dear,  by  all  means  to  embrace  the 
fair  occasion,  and  to  put  yourself  in  the  way  of  being  squeezed  and 
incommoded  a  few  hours,  for  the  sake  of  hearing  and  seeing  what 
you  will  never  have  opportunity  to  see  and  hear  hereafter,  the  trial 
of  a  man  who  has  been  greater,  and  more  feared,  than  the  Great 
Mogul  himself.  ^Vhatever  we  are  at  home,  we  have  certainly 
been  tyrants  in  the  East ;  and  if  these  men  have,  as  they  are 
charged,  rioted  in  the  miseries  of  the  innocent,  and  dealt  death 
to  the  guiltless  with  an  unsparing  hand,  may  they  receive  a  re- 
tribution that  shall  in  future  make  all  governors  and  judges  of  ours, 
in  those  distant  regions,  tremble.  While  I  speak  thus.  I  equally 
■vVish  them  acquitted.  Tliey  were  both  my  school -fellows,  and  fop 
Hastings  I  had  a  particular  value.     Farewell, 

vv,  c, 


LETTER  LXXXVir. 

To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge^  Feb.  22,  irsg. 
I  do  net  wonder  that  your  cars  and  feelings 
vf  ere  hurt  by  Mr.  Burke's  severe  invective.  But  you  are  to  know, 
mv  dear,  cr  probably  you  know  it  ah'eady,  that  the  pi'osecution  of 
public  delinquents  has  always,  and  in  all  countries,  been  thus  con., 
ducted.  The  stile  of  a  criminal  charge  of  this  kind  has  been  aii 
affair  settled  among  orators  from  the  days  of  Tully  to  the  present, 
and  like  ail  other  practices  that  have  obtained  for  ages,  this,  i» 


LIFE  OF  CO^\TER.  161 

particular,  seems  to  have  been  founded  originally  in  reason,  and 
in  the  necessity  of  the  case. 

He  who  accuses  another  to  the  state,  must  not  ap])ear  himself 
unmoved  by  the  vie<v  of  crimes  with  which  he  charges  him,  least 
he  should  be  suspected  of  fiction,  or  of  precipitancy,  or  of  a  con- 
sciousness that,  after  all,  he  shall  not  be  able  to  prove  his  allega- 
tions. On  the  contrary,  in  order  to  impress  the  minds  of  his 
hearers  with  a  persuasion  that  he  himself  at  least  is  convinced  of 
the  criminality  of  the  prisoner,  he  must  be  vehement,  energetic, 
rapid ;  must  call  him  tyrant,  and  traitor,  and  every  thing  else  that 
is  odious,  and  all  this  to  his  face,  because  all  this,  bad  as  it  is,  is 
no  more  than  he  undertakes  to  prove  in  the  sequel,  and  if  he  can- 
not prove  it  he  must  himself  appear  in  a  light  very  little  more  de- 
sirable, and  at  the  best  to  have  trifled  with  the  tribunal  to  v.hich 
he  has  summoned  him. 

Thus  Tally,  in  the  very  first  sentence  of  his  first  oration  against 
Cataline,  calls  him  a  monster  ;  a  manner  of  address  in  Avhich  he 
persisted  till  said  monster,  unable  to  support  the  fury  of  his  accu- 
ser's eloquence  any  longer,  rose  from  his  scat,  elbowed  for  himself 
a  passage  through  the  crowd,  and  at  last  l)urst  from  the  senate- 
house  in  an  agony,  as  if  the  furies  themselves  had  follovvcd  him. 

And  now,  my  dear,  though  I  have  thus  spoken,  and  have  seemed 
to  plead  the  cause  of  that  species  of  eloquence  which  you,  and 
eveiy  creature  who  has  your  sentiments,  must  necessarily  dislike, 
perhaps  I  am  not  altogether  convinced  of  its  propriety.  Perhaps, 
at  the  bottom,  I  am  much  more  of  opinion,  that  if  the  charge, 
unaccompanied  by  any  inflammatory  matter,  and  simply  detailed^ 
being  once  delivered  into  the  court,  and  read  aloud,  the  witnesses 
were  immediately  examined,  and  sentence  pronounced  according 
to  the  evidence,  not  only  the  process  would  be  shortened,  much 
time  and  much  expense  saved,  but  justice  would  have  at  least  as 
fair  play  as  now  she  has.  Prejudice  is  of  no  use  in  weighing  the 
question — Guilty  or  not  guilty  ;  and  the  principal  aim,  end,  and 
effect  of  such  introductor}'  harangues  is  to  create  as  much  preju- 
dice as  possible.  When  you  and  1,  therefore,  shall  have  the  whole 
and  sole  management  of  such  a  business  entrusted  to  us,  we  will 
order  it  otherwise. 

I  was  glad  to  learn  from  tlie  papers  that  our  cousin  Henry  shone 
as  he  did  in  reading  the  charge.  This  must  have  given  much 
pleasure  to  the  General. 

Thy  ever  affectionate,  W.  C. 


VOL.  I. 


162  LIFE  OF  COVVPER. 

LETTER  LXXXVin. 

To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  March  3,  1788, 
One  day  last  week,  Mrs.  Unwin  and  I 
having  taken  our  morning  walk,  and  returning  homeward  through 
the  wilderness,  met  the  Throckmortons.  A  mhiute  after  we  had 
met  them,  wc  heard  the  cry  of  hounds  at  no  great  distance,  and 
mounting  the  broad  stump  of  an  elm,  which  had  been  felled, 
and  by  the  aid  of  which  we  were  enabled  to  look  over  the  wall, 
we  saw  them.  They  were  all  that  time  in  our  orchard :  presently 
we  heard  a  terrier,  belonging  to  Mrs.  Throckmoi'ton,  which  you 
may  remember  by  the  name  of  Fury,  yelping  with  much  vehe- 
mence, and  saw  her  running  thi'ough  the  thickets,  within  a  few 
yards  of  us,  at  her  utmost  speed,  as  if  in  pursuit  of  something, 
which  we  doubted  not  was  the  fox.  Before  we  could  reach  the 
other  end  of  the  wilderness,  the  hounds  entered  also ;  and  when 
we  arrived  at  the  gate  which  opens  into  the  grove,  there  we  found 
the  whole  weary  cavalcade  assembled.  The  huntsman  dismount- 
ing, begged  leave  to  follow  his  hounds  on  foot,  for  he  was  sure,  he 
said,  that  they  had  killed  him — a  conclusion  which  I  suppose  he 
drew  from  their  profound  silence.  He  was  accordingly  admitted, 
and  with  a  sagacity  that  would  not  have  dishonoured  the  best 
homid  in  the  world,  pursuing  precisely  the  same  track  which  the 
fox  and  the  dogs  had  taken,  though  he  had  never  had  a  glimpse 
of  either  after  their  first  entrance  through  the  rails,  arrived  where 
he  found  the  slaughtered  prey.  He  soon  produced  dead  Reynard, 
and  rejoined  us  in  the  grove,  Avith  all  his  dogs  about  him.  Having 
an  opportunity  to  see  a  ceremony,  which  I  was  pretty  sure  would 
never  fall  in  my  way  again,  I  determined  to  stay,  and  to  notice  all 
that  passed  with  the  most  minute  attention.  The  huntsman  having, 
"by  the  aid  of  a  pitchfork,  lodged  Reynard  on  the  arm  of  an  elm, 
at  the  height  of  about  nine  feet  from  the  ground,  there  left  him  for- 
a  considerable  time.  The  gentlemen  sat  on  their  horses  contem- 
plating the  fox,  for  which  they  had  toiled  so  hard ;  and  the  hounds, 
assembled  at  the  foot  of  the  tree,  with  faces  not  less  expressive  of 
the  most  rational  delight,  contemplated  the  same  object.  The- 
huntsman  remounted ;  he  cut  off  a  foot,  and  threw  it  to  the  hounds  j 
one  of  them  swallowed  it  whole  like  a  bolus.  He  then  once  more 
alighted,  and  drawing  down  the  fox  by  the  hinder  legs,  desired 
the  people,  who  were  by  this  time  rather  numei-ous,  to  open  a  lane 
for  him  to  the  right  and  left.  He  was  instantly  obeyed,  when, 
throwing  the  fox  to  the  distance  of  some  yards,  and  screaming  like 
a  fiend,  "  tear  him  to  pieces,"  at  least  six  times  repeatedly,  he 


LIFE  OF  COWTER.  163 

tonsigned  him  over  absolutely  to  the  pack,  who  in  a  few  minutes 
devoured  him  completel} .  Thus,  my  dear,  as  Virgil  says,  what 
none  of  the  gods  could  have  ventured  to  promise  me,  time  itself, 
pursuing  its  accustomed  course,  has  of  its  own  accord  presented 
me  with.  I  have  been  in  at  the  death  of  a  fox,  and  you  know  as 
much  of  the  matter  as  I,  who  am  as  well  informed  as  any  sports- 
man in  England.     Yours,  W.  C. 


LETTER  LXXXLX. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge^  March  12,  1^88. 
Slavery,  and  the  Manners  of  the  Great) 
I  have  read.  The  former  I  admired,  as  I  do  all  that  Miss  More 
writes,  as  well  for  energy  of  expression,  as  for  the  tendency  of  the 
design.  I  have  ne\'^r  yet  seen  any  production  of  her  pen  that  has 
not  recommended  itself  by  both  these  qualifications.  There  is 
likewise  much  good  sense  in  her  manner  of  treating  every  subject, 
and  no  mere  poetic  cant  (which  is  the  thing  that  I  abhor)  in  her 
manner  of  treating  any.  And  this  I  say,  not  because  you  now  know 
and  visit  her,  but  it  has  long  been  my  avowed  opinion  of  her  works, 
which  I  have  both  spoken  and  written  as  often  as  I  have  had  oc- 
casion to  mention  them. 

Mr.  Wilberforce's  little  book  (if  he  was  the  author  of  it)  has 
also  charmed  me.  It  must,  I  should  imagine,  engage  the  notice  of 
those  to  whom  it  is  addressed.  In  that  case  one  may  say  to  them, 
either  answer  it,  or  i)e  set  down  by  it.  They  will  do  neither.  They 
will  approve,  commend,  and  forget  it.  Such  has  been  the  fate  of 
all  exhortations  to  reform,  whether  in  verse  or  prose,  and  however 
closely  pressed  upon  the  conscience  in  all  ages,  here  and  there  a 
happy  individual,  to  whom  God  gives  grace  and  wisdom  to  profit 
by  the  admonition,  is  the  better  for  it.  But  the  aggregate  body  (as 
Gilbert  Cooper  used  to  call  the  multitude)  remain,  though  with  a 
very  good  understanding  of  the  matter,  like  horse  and  mule  that 
have  none. 

We  shall  nov^r  soon  lose  our  neighbours  at  the  Hall.  \Vc  shall 
truly  miss  them,  and  long  for  their  return.  Mr.  Throckmorton 
said  to  me  last  night,  with  sparkling  eyes,  and  a  face  cxpressi\-e  of 
the  highest  pleasure,  "  We  compared  you  this  morning  with  Pope; 
we  read  your  fourth  Iliad,  and  his,  and  I  verily  tliink  we  shall 
beat  him.  He  has  many  superfluous  lines,  and  does  not  interest  one. 
When  I  read  your  translation,  I  am  deeply  affected.  I  see  plainly 
your  advantage,  and  am  convinced  tliat  Pope  spoiled  all  l)y  at- 
tempting the  work  in  rhyme."     His  brother  George,  who  is  my 


164  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

most  active  amanuensis,  and  who  indeed  first  introduced  the  sub- 
ject, seconded  all  he  said.  More  would  have  passed,  but  Mrs. 
Throckmorton  having  seated  herself  at  the  harpsichord,  and  for 
my  amusement  merely,  my  attention  was  of  course  turned  to  her^ 
The  new  vicar  of  Olney  is  arrived,  and  we  have  exchanged  visits. 
He  is  a  plain,  sensible  man,  and  pleases  me  much.  A  treasure 
for  Olney,  if  Olney  can  understand  his  value.     Adieu. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  XC. 
To  General  COWPER. 

Weston,  Dec.  13,  1787'. 
My  dear  General, 

A  letter  is  not  pleasant  which  excites  cu- 
riosity, but  does  not  gratify  it.  Such  a  letter  was  my  last,  the  de- 
fects of  which  I  therefore  take  the  first  opportunity  to  supply. 
When  the  condition  of  our  negroes  in  the  Islands  was  first  pre- 
sented to  me  as  a  subject  for  songs,  I  felt  myself  not  at  all  allured 
to  the  undertaking;  it  seemed  to  offer  only  images  of  horror, 
which  could  by  no  means  be  accommodated  to  the  style  of  that  sort 
of  composition.  But  having  a  desire  to  comply,  if  possible,  with 
the  i-equest  made  to  me,  after  turning  the  matter  in  my  mind  as 
many  ways  as  I  could,  I  at  last,  as  I  told  you,  produced  three, 
and  that  which  appears  to  myself  the  best  of  those  three,  I  have 
sent  you.  Of  the  other  two,  one  is  serious,  in  a  strain  of  thought 
perhaps  rather  too  serious,  and  I  could  not  help  it.  The  other, 
of  which  the  slave-trader  is  himself  the  subject,  is  somewhat  ludi- 
crous. If  I  could  think  them  worth  your  seeing,  I  would,  as  oppor^ 
tunity  should  occur,  send  them  also.  If  this  amuses  you  I  shall  b<s 
glad.  VV.  C. 


THE  MORNING  DREAM.* 

A   BALLAD. 

To  the  Tune  of  Tweed-side, 

'Twas  in  tlie  glad  season  of  spring, 

Asleep  at  the  dawi^  of  the  day, 
I  dream'd  what  I  cannot  but  sing. 

So  pleasant  it  scem'd  as  I  lay. 

*  The  excc'.lrncc  of  thh  ballad  inJuccs  me  to  re-print  it  here,  althongh  it  has  appeared  in, 
\\ie.  lair  edition  of  Cowpei^s  Poems. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  165 

I  dream'd  that  on  ocean  afloat, 

Far  hence  to  the  westward  I  sail'd, 
While  the  billows  high  lifted  the  boat, 

And  the  fi*esh  blowing  bi'eeze  never  fail'd. 

In  the  steerage  a  woman  I  saw, 

Such  at  least  was  the  form  that  she  wore, 
Whose  beauty  impress'd  me  with  awe, 

Never  taught  me  by  woman  before. 
She  sat,  and  a  shield  at  her  side 

Shed  light  like  a  sun  on  the  waves, 
And  smiling  divinely,  she  cry'd — 

"  I  go  to  make  freemen  of  slaves." 

Then  raising  her  voice  to  a  strain 

The  sweetest  that  ear  ever  heard, 
She  sung  of  the  slave's  broken  chain, 

JWherever  her  glory  appear'd. 
Some  clouds  which  had  over  us  hung 

Fled,  chas'd  by  her  melody  clear. 
And  methought,  while  she  liberty  sung, 

'Twas  liberty  only  to  hear. 

Thus  swiftly  dividing  the  flood. 

To  a  slave-cultur'd  island  we  came, 
WTiere  a  demon,  her  enemy  stood, 

Oppression  his  terrible  name. 
In  his  hand,  as  a  sign  of  his  sway, 

A  scourge  hung  with  lashes  he  bore, 
And  stood  looking  out  for  his  prey 

From  Africa's  sorrowful  shore. 

But  soon  as,  approaching  the  land. 

That  goddess-like  woman  he  view'd, 
The  scourge  he  let  fall  from  his  hand. 

With  blood  of  his  subjects  imbrued. 
I  saw  him  both  sicken  and  die. 

And  the  moment  the  monster  expir'd 
Heard  shouts  that  ascended  the  sky. 

From  thousands  with  rapture  inspir'd. 

Awaking,  how  could  I  but  muse 

At  what  such  a  dream  should  iietidc  ? 
But  soon  my  ear  caught  the  glad  news, 

\A'hich  serv'd  my  weak  thought  for  a  guide — 


166  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

That  Britannia,  renown'd  o'er  the  waves 
For  the  hatred  she  ever  has  shown 

To  the  black-sceptred  rulers  of  slaves, 
Resolves  to  have  none  of  her  own» 


LETTER  XCL 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

Weston,  March  29,  IITSS. 
!Mt  dear  Friend, 

I  rejoice  that  you  have  so  successfully 
performed  so  long  a  journey  without  the  aid  of  hoofs  or  wheels.  I 
<Jo  not  know  that  a  journey  on  foot  exposes  a  man  to  more  disasters 
than  a  carriage  or  a  horse  ;  perhaps  it  may  be  the  safer  way  of 
travelling;  but  the  novelty  of  it  impressed  me  with  some  anxiety 
on  your  account. 

It  seems  almost  incredible  to  myself,  that  my  company  should 
be  at  all  desirable  to  you,  or  to  any  man.  I  know  so  little  of  the 
%vorld  as  it  goes  at  present,  and  labour  generally  under  such  a  de- 
pression of  spirits,  especially  at  those  times  when  I  could  wish  to 
be  most  cheerful,  that  my  own  share  in  every  conversation  ap- 
pears to  me  to  be  the  most  insipid  thing  imaginable.  But  you  say 
you  found  it  otherwise,  and  I  will  not,  for  my  own  sake,  doubt  your 
sincerity,  cle  gustibiis  von  est  disputandum^  and  since  such  is 
yours,  I  shall  leave  you  in  quiet  possession  of  it,  wishing,  indeed, 
both  its  continuance  and  increase.  I  shall  not  find  a  properer  place 
in  which  to  say,  accept  of  Mrs.  Unwin's  acknowledgments,  as  well 
as  mine,  for  the  kindness  of  your  expressions  on  this  subject,  and 
be  assured  of  an  undissembling  welcome  at  all  times  when  it  shall 
suit  you  to  gi-^e  us  your  company  at  Weston.  As  to  her,  she  is 
one  of  the  sincerest  of  the  human  race,  and  if  she  receives  you 
with  the  appearance  of  pleasure,  it  is  because  she  feels  it.  Her 
behaviour  on  such  occasions  is  Avith  her  an  affair  of  conscience,  and 
she  dares  no  more  look  a  falsehood  than  utter  one. 

It  is  almost  time  to  tell  you  that  I  have  received  the  books  safe ; 
they  have  not  suffered  the  least  detriment  by  the  waj-,  and  I  am 
much  obliged  to  yen  for  them.  If  my  translation  should  be  a 
little  delayed  in  consequence  of  this  favour  of  yours,  you  must 
take  tlie  blame  on  yourself.  It  is  impossible  not  to  read  the  notes 
of  a  commentator  so  learned,  so  judicious,  and  of  so  fine  a  taste 
as  Dr.  Clarke,  having  him  at  one's  elbow.  Though  he  has  been 
but  feAv  hours  under  my  roof,  I  have  already  peeped  at  him,  and 
find  that  lie  will  be  instar  omnium  to  me.  They  are  such  notes 
exactly  as  I  wanted.     A  translator  of  Homer  should  ever  have 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  16r 

somebody  at  hand  to  say,  '•  that's  a  beauty,"  least  he  should  slum- 
ber where  his  author  does  not ;  not  only  depreciating,  by  such  in- 
advertency, the  work  of  his  original,  but  depriving,  perhaps,  his 
own  of  an  embchishment  which  wanted  only  to  be  noticed. 

If  you  hear  ballads  sung  in  the  streets  on  the  hardships  of  the 
negroes  in  the  islands,  they  are  probably  mine.  It  must  be  an 
honour  to  any  man  to  have  given  a  stroke  to  that  chain,  however 
feeble.  I  fear,  however,  that  the  attempt  will  fail.  The  tidings 
which  have  lately  reached  me  from  London  concerning  it,  are  not 
the  most  encouraging.  While  the  matter  slept,  or  was  but  slightly 
adverted  to,  the  Englisli  only  had  their  share  of  shame,  in  com- 
mon with  other  nations,  on  account  of  it.  But  since  it  has  been 
canvassed  and  searched  to  the  bottom,  since  the  public  attention 
has  been  ri vetted  to  the  horrible  scheme,  we  can  no  longer  plead 
either  that  we  did  not  know  it,  or  did  not  think  of  it.  Woe  be  to 
us  if  we  refuse  the  poor  captives  the  redress  to  which  they  have 
so  clear  a  right,  and  prove  ourselves,  in  the  sight  of  God  and 
men,  indifferent  to  all  considerations  but  those  of  gain.     Adieu. 

W.  C, 


LETTER  XCII. 
lo  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge ^  March  31,  1788. 
My  dearest  Cousix, 

Mrs.  Throckmorton  has  promised  to 
write  to  me.  I  beg  that,  as  often  as  you  shall  see  her,  you  Avill 
give  her  a  smart  pinch,  and  say,  "  have  you  written  to  my  cou- 
sin?" I  build  all  my  hopes  of  her  performance  on  this  expedient, 
and  for  so  doing  these  my  letters,  not  patent,  shall  be  your  suffi- 
cient warrant.  You  are  thus  to  give  her  the  question  till  she  shall 
answer.  Yes.  I  have  written  one  more  song,  and  sent  it.  It  is. 
called  the  Morning  Dream,  and  maybe  sung  to  the  tune  of  Tweed- 
side,  or  any  other  t\nie  that  will  suit  it,  for  I  am  not  nice  on  that 
subject.  I  would  have  copied  it  for  you,  had  I  not  almost  filled 
my  sheet  without  it ;  but  now,  my  dear,  you  must  stay  till  the  sweet 
sirens  of  London  shall  bring  it  to  you,  or,  if  that  happy  day 
should  never  arrive,  I  hereby  acknowledge  myself  your  debtor  to 
tliat  amount.  I  shall  now  probably  cease  to  sing  of  tortured  ne- 
groes, a  theme  which  never  pleased  me,  but  wliich,  in  the  hope 
of  doing  them  some  little  service,  I  was  not  unwilling  to  handle. 

If  any  thing  could  have  raised  Miss  More  to  a  higher  place  in 
my  opinion  than  she  possessed  before,  it  could  only  be  your  in- 
formation that,  after  all,  she,  and  not  Mr.  Wilberforce,  Is  author 


168  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

of  that  volume.  How  comes  it  to  pass  that  she,  being  a  woman, 
writes  with  a  force  and  energy,  and  a  correctness,  hitherto  arro- 
gated by  the  men,  and  not  very  frequently  displayed  even  by  the 
men  themselves  ?     Adieu. 

w.  c. 


LETTER  XCIIL 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esquire. 

Weston,  May  8,  1788. 
Alas  I  my  library — I  must  now  give  it  up 
for  a  lost  thing  for  ever.  The  only  consolation  belonging  to  the 
circumstance  is,  or  seems  to  be,  that  no  such  loss  did  e\'er  befall 
any  other  man,  or  can  ever  befall  me  again.  As  far  as  books  are 
concerned,  I  am 

Totus  teres  atque  rotundus, 

and  may  set  fortune  at  defiance.  Those  books  which  had  been  my 
father's,  had,  most  of  them,  his  arms  on  the  inside  cover,  but  the 
rest  no  mark,  neither  his  name  nor  mine.  I  could  mourn  for  them 
like  Sancho  for  his  Dapple,  but  it  would  avail  me  nothing. 

You  will  oblige  me  much  by  sending  me  Crazy  Kate.  A  gen- 
tleman last  winter  promised  me  both  her  and  the  Lace-maker,  but 
he  went  to  London,  that  place  in  which,  as  in  the  grave,  "  all 
things  are  forgotten,"  and  I  have  never  seen  either  of  them. 

I  begin  to  find  some  prospect  of  a  conclusion,  of  the  Iliad  at 
least,  now  opening  upon  me,  having  reached  the  eighteenth  book. 
Your  letter  found  me  yesterday  in  the  very  fact  of  dispersing  the 
whole  host  of  Troy,  by  the  voice  only  of  Achilles.  There  is  no- 
thing extravagant  in  the  idea,  for  you  have  witnessed  a  similar 
effect  attending  even  such  a  voice  as  mine,  at  midnight,  from  a 
garret  window,  on  the  dogs  of  a  whole  parish,  whom  I  have  put 
to  flight  in  a  moment.  VV.  C. 


LETTER  XCIV. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodffc,  May  12,  1788. 

It  is  probable,  my  dearest  coz.  that  I  shall 

not  be  able  to  write  much,  but  as  much  as  I  can  I  will.     The  time 

between  rising  and  breakfast  is  all  that  I  can  at  present  find,  and 

this  morning  I  lay  longer  than  usual. 

In  the  style  of  the  lady's  note  to  you  I  cm  easily  perceive  a 
smatch  of  her  character.     Neither  men  nor  women  write  with 


LIFE  OF  COVVPER.  169 

such  neatness  of  expression,  who  ha\'e  not  given  a  good  deal  of 
attention  to  language,  and  qualified  themselves  by  study.  At  the 
same  time  it  gave  me  much  more  pleasure  to  observe,  that  my 
coz.  thougli  not  standing  on  the  pinnacle  of  renown  quite  so  ele- 
vated as  that  which  lifts  Mrs.  Montagu  to  the  clouds,  falls  in  no 
degree  short  of  her  in  this  particular;  so  that,  should  she  make 
you  a  member  of  her  academj'^,  she  will  do  it  honour.  Suspect 
me  not  of  flattering  you,  for  I  abhor  the  thought ;  neither  will 
you  suspect  it.  Rocollect  that  it  is  an  invariable  rule  with  me 
never  to  pay  compliments  to  those  I  love ! 

Two  days,  en  suite,  I  have  walked  to  Gayhurst ;  a  longer  jour- 
ney than  I  have  walked  on  foot  these  seventeen  years.  The  first 
day  I  went  alone,  designing  merely  to  make  the  experiment,  and 
choosing  to  be  at  liberty  to  return  at  whatsoever  point  of  my  pilgrim- 
age I  should  find  myself  fatigued.  For  I  was  not  without  suspi- 
cion that  years,  and  some  other  things  no  less  injurious  than  years, 
viz.  melancholy  and  distress  of  mind,  might,  by  this  time,  have 
unfitted  me  for  such  achievements.  But  I  found  it  otherwise.  I 
reached  the  church,  which  stands,  as  you  know,  in  the  garden,  in 
fifty-five  minutes,  and  returned  in  ditto  time  to  Weston.  The 
next  day  I  took  the  same  walk  with  Mr.  Powley,  having  a  desire 
to  show  him  the  prettiest  place  in  the  country.  I  not  only  per- 
formed these  two  excursions  without  injury  to  my  health,  but  have, 
by  means  of  them,  gained  indisputalile  proof,  that  my  ambulatory 
feculty  is  not  yet  impaired  ;  a  discovery  which,  considering  that  to 
my  feet  alone  I  am  likely,  as  I  have  ever  been,  to  be  indebted  always 
for  my  transportation  from  place  to  place,  I  find  very  delectable. 

You  will  find  in  the  last  Gentleman's  Magazine,  a  sonnet  ad- 
dressed to  Heniy  Cowper,  signed  T.  H.  I  am  the  writer  of  it. 
No  creature  knows  this  but  yourself:  you  will  make  what  use  of 
t!ie  intelligence  you  shall  see  good.  W.  C. 


LETTER   XCV. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esquire. 

May  24,  17 S8. 
Mv  DEAR  Friend, 

For  two  excellent  prints,  I  return  j'ou  my 
sincere  acknowledgments.  I  cannot  say  that  poor  Kate  resembles 
much  tlie  original,  who  was  neither  so  young,  nor  so  handsome  as 
the  pencil  has  represented  her  ;  but  she  was  a  figure  well  suited 
to  the  account  given  of  her  in  the  Task,  and  has  a  face  exceedingly- 
expressive  of  despairing  melancholy.  The  lace-maker  is  acci- 
dentally a  good  likeness  of  a  yoimg  woman,  once  our  neighbour, 
VOL,  I.  z 


1/0  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

■who  was  hardly  less  handsome  than  the  picture  twenty  years  ago  J 
but  the  loss  of  one  husband,  and  the  acquisition  of  another,  have, 
since  that  time,  impaired  her  much;  yet  she  might  still  be  sup-, 
posed  to  have  sat  to  the  artist. 

We  dined  yesterday  with  your  friend  and  mine,  the  most  com- 
panionable and  domestic  Mr.  C  Tlie  whole  kingdom  can 
hardly  furnish  a  spectacle  more  pleasing  to  a  man  Avho  has  a  taste 
for  true  happiness,  than  himself,  Mrs.  C ,  and  their  multitu- 
dinous family.  Seven  long  miles  are  interposed  between  us,  or 
perhaps  I  should  oftener  have  an  opportunity  of  declaiming  on  this 
subject. 

I  am  now  in  the  nineteenth  book  of  the  Iliad,  and  on  the  point  of 
displaying  such  feats  of  heroism,  performed  by  Achilles,  as  make 
all  other  achievements  trivial.  I  may  well  exclaim,  Oh !  for  a 
Muse  of  fire  !  especially  having  not  only  a  great  host  to  cope  with, 
but  a  great  liver  also  ;  much,  however,  may  be  done  when  Homer 
leads  the  way.  I  should  not  have  chosen  to  have  been  the  original 
author  of  such  a  business,  even  though  all  the  Nine  had  stood  at 
my  elbow.  Time  has  wonderful  effects.  We  admire  that  in  an 
ancient,  for  which  we  should  send  a  modern  bard  to  Bedlam. 

I  saw  at  Mr.  C— — 's  a  great  curiosity ;  an  antique  bust  of  Pa- 
ris, in  Parian  marble.  You  will  conclude  that  it  interested  me  ex- 
ceedingly. I  pleased  myself  with  supposing  that  it  once  stood  in 
Helen's  chamber.  It  was  in  fact  brought  from  the  Levant,  and 
though  not  well  mended,  (for  it  had  suffered  much  by  time)  is  an 
admirable  performance.  W.  C. 


LETTER  XCVI. 

To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  May  27,  1788. 
The   General,  in  a  letter  which  came 
yesterday,  sent  me  inclosed  a  copy  of  my  sonnet ;  thus  intro- 
ducing it. 

"  I  send  a  copy  of  verses  somebody  has  written  in  the  Gentle- 
man's Magazine  for  April  last.  Independent  of  my  partiality  to- 
wards the  subject,  I  think  the  lines  themselves  are  good." 

Thus  it  appears,  that  my  poetical  adventure  has  succeeded  to 
my  wish ;  and  I  write  to  him  by  this  post,  on  purpose  to  inform 
him  that  the  somebody  in  question  is  myself. 

r  no  longer  wonder  that  Mrs,  Montagu  stands  at  the  head  of 
all  that  is  called  learned,  and  that  every  critic  veils  his  bonnet  to 
her  superior  judgment.  I  am  now  reading,  and  have  reached  the 
middle  of  her  essay  on  the  genius  of  Shakspeare ;  a  book  of  which. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  in 

strange  as  it  may  seem,  though  I  must  have  read  it  formcvly,  I 
had  absolutely  forgot  the  existence. 

The  learning,  the  good  sense,  the  sound  judgment,  and  the  wit 
displayed  in  it,  fully  justify,  not  only  my  compliment,  but  all  com- 
pliments that  either  have  been  already  paid  to  her  talents,  or  shall 
be  paid  liereafter.  Voltaire,  I  doubt  not,  rejoiced  that  his  anta- 
gonist wrote  in  English,  and  that  his  countrymen  could  not  pos- 
sibly be  judges  of  the  dispute.  Could  they  have  known  how  much 
she  was  in  the  right,  and  by  how  many  thousand  miles  the  bard  of 
Avon  is  superior  to  all  their  dramatists,  the  French  critic  would 
have  lost  half  his  fame  among  them. 

I  saw  at  Mr.  C 's  a  head  of  Paris ;  an  antique  of  Parian 

marble.  His  uncle,  who  left  him  the  estate,  brought  it,  as  I  un- 
derstand Mr.  C— — ,  from  the  Levant:  you  may  suppose  I 
viewed  it  with  all  the  enthusiasm  that  belongs  to  a  translator  of 
Homer.  It  is,  in  reality,  a  great  curiosity,  and  highly  valuable. 
Our  friend  Sephus  has  sent  me  two  prints ;  the  Lace -maker  and 
Crazy  Kate.  These  also  I  have  contemplated  with  pleasure ; 
having,  as  you  know,  a  particidar  interest  in  them.  The  former 
of  them  is  not  more  beautifid  than  a  lace-maker,  once  our  neigh- 
bour at  Olney;  though  the  artist  has  assembled  as  many  charms  in 
her  countenance  as  I  ever  saw  in  any  countenance,  one  excepted. 
Kate  is  both  younger  and  handsomer  than  the  original  from  which 
I  drew  ;  but  she  is  in  a  good  style,  and  as  mad  as  need  be. 

How  does  this  hot  weather  suit  thee,  my  dear,  in  London  ?  as 
for  me,  with  all  my  colonades  and  bowers,  I  am  quite  oppressed 
by  it.  W.  C. 


LETTER  XCVIL 

To   Lady   HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  June  3,  l!rS8. 
My  dearest  Coz. 

The  excessive  heat  of  these  last  few  days 
was,  indeed,  oppressive ;  but,  excepting  the  languor  that  it  occa- 
sioned both  in  my  mind  and  body,  it  was  far  from  being  prejudi- 
cial to  me.  It  opened  ten  thousand  pores,  by  which  as  many  mis- 
chiefs, the  effects  of  long  obstruction,  began  to  breathe  tiiemselves 
forth  abundantly.  Then  came  an  east  wind,  baneful  to  me  at  all 
times,  but  following  so  closely  such  a  sultry  season,  uncommonly 
noxious.  To  speak  in  the  seaman's  phrase,  not  entirely  strange 
to  you,  I  was  taken  all  aback ;  and  the  himiours  which  would  have 
escaped,  if  old  Eui'us  would  have  gi\  en  them  leave,  finding  every 
door  shut,  have  fallen  into  my  eyes.     But,  in  a  country  like  this, 


lirs  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

poor  miserable  mortals  must  be  content  to  suffer  all  that  sudden 
and  violent  changes  can  inflict ;  and  if  they  are  quit  for  about  half 
the  plagues  that  Caliban  calls  down  on  Prospero,  they  may  say  we 
are  well  off,  and  dance  for  joy,  if  the  rheumatism  or  cramp  wiH 
let  them. 

Did  you  ever  see  an  advertisement  by  one  Fowle,  a  dancing- 
master  of  Newport-Pagnel  ?  If  not,  I  will  contrive  to  send  it  you 
for  your  amusement.  It  is  the  most  extravagantly  ludicrous  affair 
of  the  kind  I  ever  saw.  The  author  of  it  had  the  good  hap  to  be 
crazed,  or  he  had  never  produced  any  thing  half  so  clever ;  for 
you  will  ever  observe,  that  they  who  are  said  to  have  lost  their 
wits,  have  more  than  other  people.  It  is,  therefore,  only  a  slander, 
■with  which  envy  prompts  the  malignity  of  persons  in  their  senses, 
to  asperse  those  who  are  wittier  than  themselves.  But  there  are 
countries  in  the  world,  where  the  mad  have  justice  done  them, 
■where  they  are  revered  as  the  subjects  of  inspiration,  and  consulted 
as  oracles.     Poor  Fowle  would  have  made  a  figure  there. 

w.  c. 


LETTER  XCVin. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,   Esquire. 

Weston,  June  8,  J/SS. 
My  dear  Friend, 

Your  letter  brought  me  the  very  first 
intelligence  of  the  event  it  mentions.  My  last  letter  from  Lady 
Hesketh  gave  me  reason  enough  to  expect  it ;  but  the  certainty  of 
it  v/as  unknown  to  me  till  I  learned  it  by  your  information.  If  gra- 
dual decline,  the  consequence  of  great  age,  be  a  sufficient  prepa- 
ration of  the  mind  to  encounter  such  a  loss,  our  minds  were  cer- 
tainly prepared  to  meet  it:  yet,  to  you,  I  need  not  say,  that  no 
preparation  can  supersede  the  feelings  of  the  heart  on  such  occa- 
sions. W'Tiile  our  friends  yet  live,  inhabitants  of  the  same  woi-ld 
•with  ourselves,  they  seem  still  to  live  to  us;  we  are  sure  that  they 
sometimes  think  of  us  ;  and  however  improbable  it  may  seem,  it 
is  never  impossible  that  we  may  see  each  other  once  again.  But 
the  grave,  like  a  great  gulph,  swallows  all  such  expectations:  and 
in  the  moment  when  a  beloved  friend  sinks  into  it,  a  thousand  ten- 
der recollections  awaken  a  regret,  that  will  be  felt  in  spite  of  all 
reasonings,  and  let  our  warnings  have  been  what  they  may.  Thus 
it  is  I  take  my  last  leave  of  poor  Ashley,  whose  heart  towards  me 
was  ever  truly  parental,  and  to  whose  memory  I  owe  a  tenderness 
and  respect  that  will  never  leave  me.  W.  C. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  1?3 

LETTER  XCIX. 

To  Lady  HESKETH. 
My  dear  Coz.  The  Lodge,  Jwie  10,  1758. 

Your  kind  letter  of  precaution  to  Mr. 
Gregson,  sent  him  hither  as  soon  as  chapel  sei'vice  was  ended  in 
the  evening;  but  he  found  me  already  apprized  of  tlie  event  that 
occasioned  it,  by  a  line  from  Sephus,  received  a  few  hours  before. 
My  dear  uncle's  death  awakened  in  me  many  reflections,  which, 
for  a  time,  sunk  my  spirits.  A  man,  like  him,  would  have  been 
mourned,  had  he  doubled  the  age  he  reached ;  at  any  age,  his 
death  would  have  been  felt  as  a  loss  that  no  survivor  could  i-epair. 
And  though  it  was  not  probable  that,  for  my  own  part,  I  should 
ever  see  him  more,  yet  the  consciousness  that  he  still  lived  was  a 
comfort  to  me  :  let  it  comfort  us  now,  that  we  have  lost  him  only 
at  a  time  when  nature  could  afford  him  to  us  no  longer ;  that  as 
his  life  was  blameless,  so  was  his  death  without  anguish  ;  and  that 
he  is  gone  to  heaven.  I  know  not  that  human  life,  in  its  most 
prosperous  state,  can  present  any  thing  to  our  wishes  half  so 
desirable  as  such  a  close  of  it. 

Not  to  mingle  this  subject  with  others  that  would  ill  suit  with 
it,  I  will  add  no  more  at  present,  than  a  warm  hope  that  you  and 
your  sister  will  be  able  effectually  to  avail  yourselves  of  all  the 
consolatory  matter  with  which  it  abounds.  You  gave  yourselves, 
while  he  lived,  to  a  father,  whose  life  was  doubtless  prolonged  by 
your  attentions,  and  whose  tenderness  of  disposition  made  him 
always  deeply  sensible  of  your  kindness  in  this  respect,  as  well  as 
in  many  others.  His  old  age  was  the  happiest  that  I  have  ever 
known;  and  I  give  you  both  joy  of  having  had  so  fair  an  opportu- 
nity, and  of  having  so  well  used  it,  to  approve  yourselves  equal  to 
fhc  calls  of  such  a  duty  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  C. 

To  Lady  HESKETH. 

77!e  Lodge,  June  15,  1788. 
Although  I  Icnew  that  you  must  be  very 
much  occupied  on  the  present  most  affecting  occasion,  yet  not 
hearing  from  you,  I  began  to  be  very  uneasy  on  your  account,  and 
to  fear  that  your  health  might  have  suffered  by  the  fatigue,  both  of 
Ijody  and  spirits,  that  you  must  have  undergone,  till  a  letter,  that 
reached  me  yesterday,  from  the  General,  set  my  heart  at  rest,  so 
far  as  that  cause  of  anxiety  was  in  question.     He  speaks  of  niv 


lU  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

uncle  in  the  tenderest  terms ;  such  as  show  how  truly  sensible  he 
was  of  the  amiableness  and  excellence  of  his  character,  and  how 
deeply  he  regrets  his  loss.  We  have  indeed  lost  one,  who  has  not 
left  his  like  in  the  present  generation  of  our  family,  and  whose 
equal,  in  all  respects,  no  future  of  it  will  probably  produce.  My 
memory  retains  so  perfect  an  impression  of  him,  that  had  I  been 
a  painter  instead  of  a  poet,  I  could,  from  those  faithful  traces,  have 
perpetuated  his  face  and  form  with  the  most  minute  exactnessa 
And  this  I  the  rather  wonder  at,  because  some  with  whom  I  was 
equally  conversant  five  and  twenty  years  ago,  have  almost  faded 
out  of  all  recollection  with  me :  but  he  made  impression  not  soon 
to  be  effaced ;  and  was  in  figure,  in  tempei',  and  manner,  and  in 
numerous  other  respects,  such  as  I  shall  never  behold  again.  I  of- 
ten think  what  a  joyful  interview  there  has  been  between  him  and 
some  of  his  cotemporaries  who  went  before  him.  The  truth  of  the 
matter  is,  my  dear,  that  they  are  the  happy  ones,  and  that  we 
shall  never  be  such  ourselves  till  we  have  joined  the  party.  Can 
there  be  any  thing  so  worthy  of  our  warmest  wishes,  as  to  enter  on 
an  eternal,  unchangeable  state,  in  blessed  fellowship  and  commu- 
nion with  those  whose  society  we  valued  most,  and  for  the  best  rea- 
sons while  they  continued  with  us?  A  few  steps  more,  through  a 
vain  foolish  world,  and  this  happin  ess  Avill  be  yours :  but  be  not 
hasty,  my  dear,  to  accomplish  thy  journey  i  For  of  all  that  live, 
thou  art  one  whom  I  can  least  spare,  for  thou  also  art  one  who 
shall  not  leave  thy  equal  behind  thee.  W.  C. 


LETTER  CI. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

Weston,  June  23,  1788, 
When  I  tell  you  that  an  unanswered  letter 
Froubles  mv  conscience,  in  some  degree,  like  a  crime,  you  will 
think  me  endued  with  a  most  heroic  patience,  who  have  so  long 
submitted  to  that  trouble  on  account  of  yours  not  answered  yet. 
But  the  truth  is  that  I  have  been  much  engaged.  Homer,  you 
know,  affords  me  constant  employment:  besides  which,  I  have 
rather  what  may  be  called,  considering  the  privacy  in  which  I  have 
long  lived,  a  numerous  correspondence :  to  one  of  my  friends  in 
particular,  a  near  and  much  loved  relation,  I  write  weekly,  and 
sometimes  twice  in  the  week:  nor  are  these  my  only  excuses  ;  the 
sudden  changes  of  the  weather  have  much  affected  me.  and  es- 
pecially witii  a  disorder  most  unfavourable  to  letter- vv'riting,  an  in- 
flammation in  my  eyes.  With  all  these  apologies  I  approach  yo\t 
once  more,  not  altcgcther  despairing  of  forgiveness.- 


LIFE  OF  COV^TER.  175 

It  has  pleased  God  to  give  us  rain,  without  which  this  part  of  our 
country  at  least  must  soon  have  become  a  desart.  The  meadows 
have  been  parched  to  a  January  brown,  and  we  have  foddered  our 
cattle  for  some  time,  as  in  the  winter. — The  goodness  and  power 
of  God  are  never,  I  believe,  so  universally  acknowledged  as  at  the 
end  of  a  long  drought.  Man  is  naturally  a  self-sufficient  animal, 
and  in  all  concerns  that  seem  to  lie  within  the  sphere  of  his  own 
ability,  thinks  little  or  not  at  all  of  the  need  he  always  has  of  pro- 
tection and  furtherance  from  above:  but  he  is  sensible  that  the 
clouds  will  not  assemble  at  his  bidding,  and  that  though  the  clouds 
assemble,  they  will  not  fall  in  showers  because  he  commands  them. 
When,  therefore,  at  last,  the  blessing  descends,  you  shall  hear, 
even  in  the  streets,  the  most  irreligious  and  thoughtless,  with  one 
voice,  exclaim, ''Thank  God  I" — confessing  themselves  indebted  to 
his  favour,  and  willing,  at  least  so  far  as  words  go,  to  give  him  the 
glory.  I  can  hardly  doubt,  therefore,  that  the  earth  is  sometimes 
parched,  and  the  crops  endangered,  in  order  that  the  multitude 
may  not  want  a  memento  to  whom  they  owe  them,  nor  absolutely 
forget  the  power  on  which  all  depend  for  all  things. 

Our  solitary  part  of  the  year  is  over.  Mi's.  Unwin's  daughter 
and  son-in-law  have  lately  spent  some  time  with  us :  we  shall 
shortly  receive  from  London  our  old  friends  the  Newtons,  (he  was 
once  minister  of  Olney)  and  when  they  leave  us,  we  expect  that 
Lady  Hesketh  will  succeed  them,  perhaps  to  spend  the  summer 
here,  and  possibly  the  winter  also.  The  summer,  indeed,  is  leav- 
ing us  at  a  rapid  rate,  as  do  all  the  seasons  ;  and  though  I  have 
marked  their  flight  so  often,  I  know  not  which  is  the  swiftest. 
Man  is  never  so  deluded  as  when  he  dreams  of  his  own  duration. 
The  answer  of  the  old  Patriarch  to  Pharaoh  may  be  adopted  by 
every  man  at  the  close  of  the  longest  life — "  Few  and  evil  have 
been  the  days  of  the  years  of  my  pilgrimage."  Whether  Ave  look 
back  from  fifty,  or  from  twice  fifty,  the  past  appears  equally  a 
dream  ;  and  we  can  only  be  said  truly  to  have  lived  while  we  have 
been  profitably  employed.  Alas!  then,  makmg  the  necessary  de- 
ductions, how  short  is  life !  Were  men,  in  general,  to  save  them- 
selves all  the  steps  they  take  to  no  purpose,  or  to  a  bad  one,  what 
numbers,  who  are  now  active,  would  become  sedentary  ! 

Thus  I  have  sermonized  through  my  paper.  Living  where  you 
live,  you  can  bear  with  me  the  better.  I  always  follow  the  leading 
of  my  unconstrained  thoughts  when  I  write  to  a  friend,  be  they 
grave  or  otherwise.  Homer  reminds  me  of  you  every  day.  I  am 
BOW  ia  the  twenty-first  Iliad.     Adieu. 

W.  C. 


ire  LIFE  OF  COWPERi 

LETTER  Cn. 
To   Lady    HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  July  28,  1788. 
It  is  in  vain  that  you  tell  me  you  have  na 
talent  at  description,  while,  in  fact,  you  describe  better  than  any 
body.  You  have  given  me  a  most  complete  idea  of  your  mansion 
and  its  situation ;  and  I  doubt  not  that,  with  your  letter  in  my  hand, 
by  way  of  map,  could  I  be  set  down  on  the  spot  in  a  moment,  I 
should  find  mj^self  qvialified  to  take  my  walks  and  my  pastime  in 
whatever  quarter  of  your  paradise  it  should  please  me  the  most  to 
visit.  We  also,  as  you  know,  have  scenes  at  Weston  worthy  of 
description ;  but  because  you  know  them  well,  I  will  only  say  that 
one  of  them  has,  within  these  few  days,  been  much  improved — I 
mean  the  lime-walk.  By  the  help  of  the  axe  and  the  wood-bill, 
which  have  of  late  been  constantly  employed  in  cutting  out  all 
straggling  branches  that  intercepted  the  arch,  Mr.  Throckmorton 
has  now  defined  it  with  such  exactness,  that  no  cathedral  in  the 
world  can  show  one  of  more  magnificence  or  beauty.  I  bless  my- 
self that  I  live  so  near  it ;  for,  were  it  distant  several  miles,  it 
would  be  well  worth  while  to  visit  it,  merely  as  an  object  of  taste; 
not  to  mention  the  refreshment  of  such  a  gloom  both  to  the  eyes 
and  spirits.  And  these  are  the  things  which  our  modern  improvers 
of  parks  and  pleasure  grounds  have  displaced  without  mercy ;  be- 
cause, forsooth,  they  are  rectilinear.  It  is  a  wonder  they  do  not 
quarrel  with  the  sun-beams  for  the  same  reason. 

Have  you  seen  the  account  of  five  hundred  celebrated  authors 
now  living  ?  I  am  one  of  them ;  but  stand  charged  with  the  high 
crime  and  misdemeanor  of  totally  neglecting  method — an  accusa- 
tion which,  if  tlie  gentleman  would  take  the  pains  to  read  me,  he 
■would  find  sufficiently  refuted.  I  am  conscious,  at  least  myself,  of 
having  laboured  much  in  the  arrangement  of  my  matter,  and  of 
having  given  to  the  several  parts  of  every  book  of  the  Task,  as 
well  as  to  each  poem  in  the  first  volume,  that  sort  of  slight  con- 
nection which  poetry  demands ;  for  in  poetry  (except  professedly 
of  the  didactic  kind)  a  logical  precision  would  be  stiff",  pedantic, 
and  ridiculous.  But  there  is  no  pleasing  some  critics;  the  comfort 
is,  that  I  am  contented  whether  they  be  pleased  or  not.  At  the 
same  time,  to  my  honour  be  it  spoken,  the  chronicler  of  us  five 
hm^.dred  prodigies  bestows  on  me,  for  ought  I  know,  more  com- 
mendations than  on  any  other  of  my  confraternit}-.  May  he  live 
to  write  the  histories  of  as  many  thousand  poets,  and  find  me  the 
very  best  among  them !     Amen  ! 

1  join  vvith  ycu,  my  dearest  coz.  in  wishing  that  I  owned  the  fee- 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  177 

simple  of  all  the  beautiful  scenes  around  you;  but  such  einoluments 
were  never  designed  for  poets.  Am  I  not  happier  than  ever  poet 
was,  in  having  thee  for  my  cousin;  and  in  the  expectation  of  thy 
iarrival  here,  whenever  Strawberry-Hill  sliall  lose  thee  ? 

Ever  thine,  W.  C. 


LETTER  Cin. 

To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Jugust  9,  17S8; 
The  Newtons  are  still  here,  and  continue 
with  us,  I  believe,  until  the  15th  of  the  month.  Here  is  also  my 
friend  Mr.  Rose,  a  valuable  young  man,  who,  attracted  by  the  ef- 
fluvia of  my  genius,  found  me  out  in  my  retirement  last  January 
twelvemonth.  I  have  not  permitted  him  to  be  idle,  but  have  made 
him  transcribe  for  me  the  twelfth  book  of  the  Iliad.  He  brings  me 
tl\e  compUments  of  several  of  the  literati  with  whom  he  is  ac- 
quainted in  town ;  and  tells  me  that,  from  Dr.  Maclean,  whom 
he  saw  lately,  he  learns  that  my  book  is  in  the  hands  of  sixty  dif- 
ferent persons  at  the  Hague,  who  are  all  enchanted  with  it ;  not 
forgetting  the  said  Dr.  Maclean  himself,  who  tells  him  that  he  reads 
it  every  day,  and  is  always  the  better  for  it.     Oh  rare  we ! 

I  have  been  employed  this  morning  in  composing  a  Latin  motto 
for  the  King's  clock ;  the  embellishments  of  wliich  are  by  Mr. 
Bacon.  That  gentleman  breakfasted  with  us  on  Wednesday,  hav- 
ing come  thirty-seven  miles  out  of  his  way  on  purpose  to  see  your 
cousin.  At  his  request  I  have  done  it,  and  have  made  two ;  he 
will  choose  that  which  liketh  him  best.  Mr.  Bacon  is  a  most  excel- 
lent man,  and  a  most  agreeable  companion  :  I  would  that  he  lived 
hot  so  remote,  or  that  lie  had  more  opportunity  of  travelling. 

There  is  not,  so  far  as  I  know,  a  syllable  of  the  rhyming  cor- 
respondence between  me  and  my  poor  brother  left,  save  and  ex- 
cept the  six  lines  of  it  quoted  in  yours.  I  /icfd  the  whole  of  it,  but 
it  perished  in  the  wreck  of  a  thousand  other  things  when  I  left  tlie 
Temple. 

Breakfast  calls.     Adieu.  VV.  C. 


LETTER  CIV. 

To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

My  dear  Friend,  Weston,  Jugust  18,  1788. 

I  left  you  with  a  sensible  regret,  alleviated 

only  by  the  consideration,  that  I  shall  see  you  again  in  October.     I 

was  under  some  concei-n  also,  least,  not  being  able  to  give  you  any 

VOL.  I.  A  a 


178  LIFE  OF  COWPEK. 

certain  directions  myself,  nor  knowing  where  you  might  find  * 
guide,  you  should  wander  and  fatigue  yourself,  good  walker  as  yout 
are,  before  you  should  reach  Northampton.  Perhaps  you  heard 
me  whistle  just  after  our  separation ;  it  was  to  call  back  Beau,  wha 
was  rimning  after  you  with  all  speed  to  intreat  you  to  return  with 
me.  For  my  part,  I  took  my  own  time  to  retui-n,  and  did  not 
reach  home  till  after  one ;  and  then  so  weary  that  I  Avas  glad  of  my 
great  chair;  to  the  comforts  of  which  I  added  a  crust,  and  a  glass- 
of  rum  and  water,  not  without  great  occasion.  Such  a  foot-traveller 
am  I. 

I  am  writing  on  Monday,  but  whether  I  shall  finish  my  letter 
this  morning  depends  on  Mrs.  Unwin's  coming  sooner  or  later 
down  to  breakfast.  Something  tells  me  that  you  set  off  to-day  for 
Birmingham  ;  and  though  it  be  a  sort  of  Iricism  to  say  here,  "  I  be- 
seech you  take  care  of  yourself,  for  the  day  threatens  great  heat,"  I 
cannot  help  it ;  the  weather  may  be  cold  enough  at  the  time  when 
that  good  advice  shall  reach  you,  but  be  it  hot  or  be  it  cold,  to  a 
man  who  travels  as  you  travel,  "  take  care  of  yourself,"  can  never 
be  an  vmreasonable  caution.  I  am  sometimes  distressed  on  this  ac- 
count, for  though  you  are  yomig,  and  well  made  for  such  exploits, 
those  very  circumstances  are  more  likely  tlaan  any  thing  to  betray 
you  into  danger. 

Cbnsuie  quid  valeant  plant (Z^  quid  ferre  recusent. 

The  Newtons  left  us  on  Friday.  We  frequently  talked  about 
you  after  your  departure,  and  every  thing  that  was  spoken  was  to 
your  advantage.  I  know  they  will  be  glad  to  see  you  in  London, 
and  perhaps  when  your  summer  and  autumn  rambles  are  over,  you 
Avill  afford  them  that  pleasure.  The  Throckmortons  are  equally 
-well  disposed  to  you ;  and  them  also  I  recommend  to  you  as  a  va- 
luable connection ;  the  rather,  because  you  can  only  cultivate  it  at 
Weston. 

I  have  not  been  idle  since  you  went,  having  not  only  laboured 
as  usual  at  the  Iliad,  but  composed  a  sfiick  and  simn  new  piece, 
called,  "  The  Dog  and  the  Water-lily  ;"  which  you  sliall  see  when 
we  meet  again.  I  believe  I  related  to  you  the  incident  v/hich  is  the 
subject  of  it.  I  have  also  read  most  of  Lavater's  Aphorisms  ; 
they  appear  to  me  some  of  them  wise,  many  of  them  whimsical,  a 
few  of  them  false,  and  not  a  few  of  them  extravagant.  Nil  illi 
medium.  If  he  finds  in  a  man  the  feature  or  quality  that  he  ap-. 
proves,  he  deifies  him ;  if  the  contrary,  he  is  a  devil.  His  ver-. 
(Jict  is  in  neither  case,  I  suppose,  a  just  ouc. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  tfD 

LETTER  CV. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

Weston^  Sefit.  11,  1788. 
Mr  DEAR  Friend, 

Since  your  de'parture  I  have  twice  visited 
the  oak,  and  with  an  intention  to  push  my  inquii'ies  a  mile  beyond 
it,  where  it  seems  I  should  have  found  another  oak  much  largei', 
and  much  more  respectable  than  the  former  ;  but  once  I  was  hin- 
dered by  the  rain,  and  once  by  the  sultriness  of  the  day.  This  lat- 
ter oak  has  been  known  by  the  name  of  Judith  many  ages  ;  and  is 
said  to  have  been  an  Oak  at  the  time  of  the  conquest.  If  I  have 
not  an  opportunity  to  reach  it  before  your  arrival  here,  we  will  at- 
tempt that  exploit  together ;  and  even  if  I  should  have  been  able  to 
visit  it  ere  you  come,  I  shall  yet  be  glad  to  do  so;  for  the  pleasure 
of  extraordinary  sights,  like  all  other  pleasures,  is  doubled  by  the 
participation  of  a  friend. 

You  wish  for  a  copy  of  my  little  dog's  eulogium,  which  I  will 
therefore  transcribe ;  but  by  so  doing,  I  shall  leave  myself  but 
scanty  room  for  prose. 

I  shall  be  sorry  if  our  neighbours  at  the  Kail  should  have  left  it 
■when  we  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you.  I  want  you  to  see  them 
soon  again,  that  a  \\tt\e  consueiudo  may  wear  off  restraint;  and  you 
may  be  able  to  improve  the  advantage  you  have  already  gained  in 
that  quarter.  I  pitied  you  for  the  fears  which  deprived  you  of  your 
uncle's  company,  and  the  more,  having  suffered  so  much  by  those 
fears  myself.  Fight  against  that  vicious  fear,  for  such  it  is,  as  stre- 
nuously as  you  can.  It  is  the  worst  enemy  that  can  attack  a  man 
destined  to  the  forum — it  ruined  me.  To  associate  as  much  as  pos- 
sible with  the  most  respectable  company,  for  good  sense  and  good 
breeding,  is,  I  believe,  the  only,  at  least  I  am  sure  it  is  the  best 
remedy.  The  society  of  men  of  pleasure  will  not  cure  it,  but  ra- 
ther leaves  us  moi-e  exposed  to  its  influence  in  company  of  better 
persons. 

Now  for  the  Dog  and  the  Water-lily.*  W.  C. 


*  Vo/;  byfh,'  Editor. — As  the  poem  inserted  in  this  letter  has  been  printed  repeatejly,  I  shali 
here  introduce  in  its  stead  two  sprij;hily  little  poems  on  the  same  favourite  spaniel,  writtepv 
indeed,  at  a  later  period,  b;it  liitlierto,  \  believe,  nnp'.ibli^ked. 


180  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

I. 

On  a  SPANIEL,  called  BEAU,  kiUing  a  YOUNG  BIRD, 

A  Spaniel,  Beau,  that  fares  like  you, 

Well-fed,  and  at  his  ease, 
Should  wiser  be  than  to  pursue 

Each  trifle  that  he  sees. 

But  you  have  kill'd  a  tiny  bird. 

Which  flew  not  till  to-day. 
Against  my  orders,  whom  you  heard 

Foi-bidding  you  the  prey. 

Nor  did  you  kill  that  you  might  eat. 

And  ease  a  doggish  pain, 
For  him,  though  chas'd  with  furious  heat, 

You  left  where  he  was  slain. 

Nor  was  he  of  the  thievish  sort, 

Or  one  whom  blood  allures. 
But  innocent  was  all  his  sport 

Whom  you  have  torn  for  yours. 

My  Dog !  what  remedy  remains. 

Since,  teach  you  all  I  can, 
I  see  you,  after  all  my  pains, 

So  much  resemble  man  ? 

n. 

BEAU'S  REPLY. 

Sir!  when  I  flew  to  seize  the  bird. 

In  spite  of  your  command, 
A  louder  voice  than  yours  I  heard, 

And  harder  to  withstand : 

You  cried — "  Forbear  !" — but  in  my  breast 

A  mightier  cried — "  Proceed !" 
=Twas  Nature,  Sir,  whose  strong  behest 

Impell'd  me  to  the  deed. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  181 


Yet  much  as  Nature  I  respect, 

I  ventur'd  once  to  break 
(As  you,  perhaps,  may  recollect) 

Her  precept,  for  your  sake : 

And  when  your  linnet,  On  a  day. 

Passing  his  prison  door, 
Had  flutter'd  all  his  strength  away, 

And  panting,  press'd  the  floor ; 

Well  knov/ing  him  a  sacred  thing, 

Not  destin'd  to  my  tooth, 
I  only  kiss'd  his  ruffled  wing, 

And  lick'd  his  feathers  smooth. 

Let  my  obedience  then  excuse 

My  disobedience  now  I 
Nor  some  reproof  yourself  refuse 

From  your  aggriev'd  Bow-wow  I 

If  killing  birds  be  such  a  crime, 
(Which  I  can  lordly  see) 

What  think  you,  Sir,  of  killing  time 
With  verse  address'd.  to  me  ? 


LETTER  CVI. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

Mv  DEAR  Friend,  Weston,  Sefit.  25,  i788. 

Say,  what  is  the  thing,  by  my  riddle  design'd, 
Which  you  carried  to  London,  and  yet  left  behind? 

I  expect  your  answer,  and  without  a  fee.  The  half  hour  next  be- 
fore breakfast  I  devote  to  you :  the  moment  Mrs.  Unwin  arrives 
in  the  study,  be  what  I  have  written  much  or  little,  I  shall  make 
my  bow,  and  take  leave.  If  you  live  to  be  a  Judge,  as  if  I  augur 
right  you  will,  I  shall  expert  to  hear  of  a  walking  circuit. 

I  was  shocked  at  what  you  tell  me  of.  Superior  talents,  it  seems, 
give  no  security  for  propriety  of  conduct ;  on  the  contrary,  having 
a  natural  tendency  to  nourish  pride,  they  often  betray  the  possessor 
into  such  mistakes  as  men  more  moderately  gifted  never  commit. 
AbiHty,  therefore,  is  not  wisdom ;  and  an  ounce  of  grace  is  a  bet- 
ter guard  against  gross  absurdity  than  the  brightest  talents  in  the 
world. 


im  LIFE  OF  COWPER: 

I  rejoice  that  you  are  prepared  for  transcript  Avork;  here  will 
be  plenty  for  you.  The  day  on  which  you  shall  receive  tliis,  I  beg 
you  v/ill  remember  to  drink  one  glass  at  least  to  the  success  of  the 
Iljad,  which  I  finished  the  day  before  yesterday,  and  yesterday  be- 
gan the  Odyssey.  It  will  be  some  time  before  I  shall  perceive  my- 
self travelling  in  another  road  ;  the  objects  around  me  are,  at  pre- 
sent, so  much  the  same  ;  Olympus  and  a  council  of  gods  meet  me 
at  my  first  entrance.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  weary  of  heroes 
and  deities,  and,  with  rcA^erence  be  it  spoken,  shall  be  glad,  for  the 
variety  sake,  to  exchange  their  company  for  that  of  a  Cyclops. 

Weston  has  not  been  without  its  tragedies  since  you  left  us: 
Mrs.  Throckmorton's  piping  bulfinch  has  been  eaten  by  a  rat,  and 
the  villain  left  nothing  but  poor  Bully's  beak  behind  him.  It  will 
be  a  wonder  if  this  event  does  not,  at  some  convenient  time,  em- 
ploy my  versifying  passion.  Did  ever  fair  lady,  from  the  Lesbia 
of  Catullus  to  the  present  day,  lose  her  bird,  and  find  no  poet  to 
commemorate  the  loss  ?  VV.  C^ 

LETTER  CVII. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

Weston,  M)v.  30,  1?'S8, 
My  dear  Friend, 

Your  letter,  accompanying  the  books  with 
which  you  have  favoured  me,  and  for  which  I  return  you  a  thou- 
sand thanks,  did  not  arrive  till  yesterday.  I  shall  have  great  plea- 
ture  in  taking,  now  and  then,  a  peep  at  my  old  friend  Vincent 
Bourne,  the  neatest  of  all  men  in  his  versification,  though,  when  I 
ivas  UndCT  his  ushership  at  Westminster,  the  most  slovenly  in  his 
person.  He  was  so  inattentive  to  his  boys,  and  so  indifferent  whe- 
ther they  brought  him  good  or  bad  exercises,  or  none  at  all,  that 
he  seemed  determined,  as  he  was  the  best,  so  to  be  the  last  Latin 
poet  of  the  Westminster  line  \  a  plot  which,  I  believe,  he  executed 
very  successfully,  for  I  have  not  heard  of  any  who  has  at  all  de- 
served to  be  compared  with  him. 

We  have  had  hardly  any  rain  or  snow  since  you  left  us;  the 
roads  are  accordingly  as  dry  as  in  the  middle  of  summer,  and  the 
opportunity  of  walking  much  more  favourable.  We  have  no  sea- 
son, in  my  mind,  so  pleasant  as  such  a  winter ;  and  I  account  it 
particiilariy  fortunate  that  such  it  proves,  my  cousin  being  with  us. 
She  is  in  good  health,  and  cheerful ;  so  are  we  all :  and  this  I 
say,  knowing  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  it,  for  you  have  seen  the 
time  when  this  could  not  be  said  of  all  your  friends  at  Weston. 
\^'e  shall  rejoice  to  see  you  here  at  Christmas ;  but  I  recollect 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  183 

■ivlien  I  hinted  such  an  excursion  by  word  of  mouth,  you  gave-  me 
no  great  encouragement  to  expect  you.  Minds  alter,  and  yours 
may  be  of  the  number  of  those  that  do  so ;  and  if  it  should,  you 
l^ill  be  entirely  welcome  to  us  all.  Were  there  no  other  reasoi> 
for  your  coming  than  merely  the  pleasure  it  will  afford  to  us,  that 
reason  alone  would  be  sufficient ;  but  after  so  many  toils,  and  with 
so  many  more  in  prospect,  it  seems  essential  to  your  well-being 
that  you  should  allow  youiself  a  respite,  which,  perhaps,  you  can 
take  as  comfortably,  I  am  sure  as  quietly,  here  as  any  where. 

The  ladies  beg  to  be  remembered  to  you  with  all  possible  esteem, 
and  regard:  they  are  just  come  down  to  breakfast,  and  being  at 
this  moment  extremely  talkative,  oblige  rne  to  put  an  end  to  my 
letter.     Adieu.  W.  C. 


LETTER  CVIIT. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

The  Lodge,  Jan.  19,.  1759,. 
My  dear  Sir, 

I  have  taken,  since  you  went  away,  many 
of  the  walks  which  we  have  taken  together,  and  none  of  them,  I 
believe,  without  thoughts  of  you.  I  have,  though  not  a  good 
memory  in  general,  yet  a  good  local  memory ;  and  can  recollect, 
by  the  help  of  a  tree,  or  a  stiie,  what  you  said  on  that  particular 
spot.  For  this  reason  I  purpose,  when  the  summer  is  come,  to 
walk  with  a  book  in  my  pocket :  what  I  read  at  my  fire-side  I 
forget,  but  what  I  read  under  a.  hedge,  or  at  the  side  of  a  pond, 
tfiat  pond  and  that  hedge  will  always  bring  to  my  remembrance: 
and  this  is  a  sort  of  memoria  technica  which  I  would  recommeiici 
to  you,  if  I  did  not  know  tliat  you  have  no  occasion  for  it. 

I  am  reading  Sir  John  Hawkins,  and  still  hold  the  same  opi- 
nion of  his  book  as  when  you  were  here.  There  are  in  it  un- 
doubtedly some  aukwardnesses  of  phrase,  and,  which  is  worse, 
here  and  there  some  unequivocal  indications  of  a  vanity  not  easily 
pardonable  in  a  man  of  his  years ;  but,  on  the  whole,  I  find  it  amus- 
ing, and  to  me  at  least,  to  whom  every  thing  that  has  passed  in 
the  literary  world  witliin  these  five-and-twenty  years  is  new,  suf- 
ficiently replete  with  information.  Mr.  Throckmorton  told  me, 
about  three  days  since,  that  it  was  lately  recommended  to  him,  by 
a  sensible  man,  as  a  book  that  would  give  him  great  insight  into 
the  history  of  modern  literature  and  modern  men  of  letters;  a. 
commendation  which  I  really  think  it  merits.  Fifty  years  hence, 
pejL'liaps,  the  world  -wJU  feel  itself  obliged  to  him. 

\V.  c. 


184  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 


LETTER  CIX. 

To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 
My  DEAR  Sir,  The  Lodge,  Jan.  24,  1789, 

We  have  heard  from  my  cousin  in  Nor- 
folk-street; she  reached  home  safely,  and  in  good  time.  An  ob- 
servation suggests  itself,  which,  though  I  have  but  little  time  for 
observation-making,  I  must  allow  myself  time  to  mention.  Acci- 
dents, as  we  call  them,  generally  occur  when  there  seems  least 
reason  to  expect  them :  if  a  friend  of  ours  travels  far  in  indifferent 
roads,  and  at  an  unfavourable  season,  we  are  i-easonably  alarmed 
for  the  safety  of  one  in  whom  we  take  so  much  interest ;  yet  how 
seldom  do  we  hear  a  tragical  account  of  such  a  journey !  It  is,  on 
the  contrary,  at  home,  in  our  yard  or  garden,  perhaps  in  our  par- 
lour, that  disaster  finds  us ;  in  any  place,  in  short,  where  we  seem 
pei'fectly  out  of  the  reach  of  danger.  The  lesson  inculcated  by 
such  a  procedure  on  the  part  of  Providence  towards  us,  seems  to 
be  that  of  perpetual  dependence. 

Having  preached  this  sermon,  I  must  hasten  to  a  close :  you 
know  that  I  am  not  idle,  nor  can  I  afford  to  be  so:  I  would  gladly 
spend  more  time  with  you,  but  by  some  means  or  other  this  day 
has  hitherto  proved  a  day  of  hindrance  and  confusion. 

w.  c. 


LETTER  ex. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

The  Lodge,  Maij  20,  1789. 
My  dear  Sir, 

Finding  myself,  between  twelve  and  one, 
at  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  book  of  the  Odyssey,  I  give  the  in- 
terval between  the  present  moment  and  the  time  of  walking  to  you. 
If  I  write  letters  before  I  sit  down  to  Homer,  I  feel  my  spirits 
too  flat  for  poetry,  and  too  flat  for  letter-writing  if  I  address  my- 
self to  Homer  first;  but  the  last  I  choose  as  the  least  evil,  be- 
cause my  friends  will  pardon  my  dulness,  but  the  public  will  not. 

I  had  been  some  days  uneasy  on  your  account  when  yours  ar- 
rived. We  should  haAC  rejoiced  to  have  seen  you,  would  your 
engagements  have  permitted :  but  in  the  autumn,  I  hope,  if  not  be- 
fore, we  shall  have  the  pleasure  to  receive  you.  At  what  time  we 
may  expect  LadyHesketh  atpi'esent  I  know  not;  but  imagine  that 
at  any  time  after  the  month  of  June  you  will  be  sure  to  find  her 
with  us,  vv'hich  I  mention,  knowing  that  to  meet  you  will  add  a 
relish  to  all  the  pleasures  she  can  find  ^t  Weston. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  185 

When  I  vvi'ote'  those  lines  on  the  Queen's  visit,  I  thought  I  had 
performed  well;  but  it  belongs  to  me,  as  I  have  told  jou  before,  to 
dislike  whatever  I  write  when  it  has  been  written  a  month.  The 
performance  was,  therefore,  sinking  in  my  esteem,  when  your  ap- 
probation of  it  arriving  in  good  time,  buoyed  it  up  again.  It  will 
now  keep  possession  of  the  place  it  holds  in  my  good  opinion,  be- 
caifte  it  has  been  favoured  with  yours ;  and  a  copy  will  certainly 
be  at  vour  service  whenever  you  choose  to  have  one. 

Nothing  is  more  certain  than  that  when  I  wrote  the  line, 

God  made  the  countrj',  and  man  made  the  town, 

1  had  not  the  least  recollection  of  that  very  similar  one  Avhich  yoU 
quote  from  Hawkins  Brown.  It  convinces  me  that  critics  (and 
none  more  than  VVarton,  in  his  Notes  on  Milton's  minor  Poems) 
have  often  charged  authors  with  borrowing  what  they  drew  from 
their  own  fund.  Brown  was  an  entertaining  companion  when  he 
had  drank  his  bottle,  but  not  before ;  this  proved  a  snare  to  him, 
and  he  would  sometimes  drink  too  much ;  but  I  know  not  that  he 
was  chargeable  with  any  other  irregularities.  He  had  those 
among  his  intimates,  who  would  not  have  been  such,  had  he  been 
otherwise  viciously  inclined ;  the  Duncombs,  in  particular,  father 
and  son,  who  were  of  unblemished  morals.  W,  C» 


ON  THE  QUEEN'S  VISIT  TO   LONDON, 

The  JVight  of  the  17th  March^  1789. 

When  long  sequester'd  from  his  throne, 

George  took  his  seat  again. 
By  right  of  woith,  not  blood  alone. 

Entitled  here  to  reign  ! 

Then  Loyalty,  with  all  her  lamps 

New  trimm'd,  a  gallant  show ! 
Chasing  the  darkness,  and  the  damps, 

Set  London  in  a  glow. 

'T was  hard  to  tell,  of  streets,  or  squares, 

Which  form'd  the  chief  display, 
These  most  resembling  clustefd  stars, 
Those  the  long  milky  way. 
VOL.  r.  B  b 


IBS  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

Bright  shone  the  roofs-,  the  domeSj  the  spires^ 

And  rockets  flew,  self-driven. 
To  hang  their  ntomentaiy  fires 

Amid  the  vault  of  heaven. 

So,  fire  with  water  to  compare. 

The  ocean  serves  on  high, 
Up-spouted  by  a  whale  in  air, 

T'  express  unwieldy  jojr. 

Had  all  the  pageants  of  the  world 

In  one  pi"oce3sion  join'd, 
And  all  the  banners,  been  unfurl'd 

That  heralds  e'er  design'd ; 

For  no  such  sight  had  England's  Queen 

Forsaken  her  retreat, 
Where  Geoi-ge  recover'd  made  a  scene 

Sweet  alwaysj  doubly  sweet. 

Yet  glad  she  came  that  night  to  prove 

A  witness  undescried, 
How  much  the  object  of  her  love 

Was  lov'd  by  all  beside. 

Darkness  the  skies  had  mantled  o'er. 

In  aid  of  her  design — 
Darkness,  O  Queen  I  ne'er  cali'd  before 

To  veil  a  deed  of  thine  ! 

On  borrow 'd  wheels  a.way  she  flies, 

Resolv'd  ta  be  unknown, 
And  gratify  no  curious  eyes 

That  night,  except  her  own. 

Arriv'd,  a  night  like  noon  she  sees. 

And  hears  the  million  hum ; 
As  all  by  instinct,  like  the  bees, 

Had  known  their  so v 'reign  come. 

Pleas'd  she  beheld  aloft  pourtray'd 

On  many  a  splendid  wall, 
EmWems  of  health,  and  heav'nly  aid. 

And  George  the  theme  of  all. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  187 


t^^nlike  the  jcnigmatic  line, 

So  difficult  to  spell ! 
Wliicli  shook  Belshazzar,  at  his  wine. 

The  night  his  city  fell. 

Soon  watery  grew  her  eyes,  and  dim, 

But  with  a  joyfiil  tear ! 
i^one  else,  except  in  pray'r  for  him, 

George  ever  drew  fi'om  her. 

Xt  was  a  scene  in  ev'ry  part 

Like  that  in  fable  feign 'd, 
And  seem'd  by  some  magician's  art 

Created,  and  sustain'd= 

teut  other  magic  there  she  kne'v*' 

Had  been  exerted,  none, 
To  raise  such  wonders  in  her  vieWj 

Save  love  of  George  alone  I 

That  cordial  thought  her  spii-it  cheer 'd, 
And  through  the  cumb'rous  throng, 

^ot  else  unworthy  to  be  fear'd, 
Con\^y'd  her  cahn  along. 

So,  ancient  poets  say,  sei-ene 
The  sea-maid  rides  the  waves, 

And  fearless  of  the  billowy  scene, 
Her  peaceful  bosom  la^^es. 

\Vith  more  than  astronomic  eyes 
She  vieW'd  the  sparkling  show; 

One  Georgian  Star  adorns  the  skies—* 
She  myriads  found  below. 

Yet  let  the  glories  of  a  night 
Like  that,  once  Seen,  suffice ! 

■Heav'n  grant  us  no  such  future  sight, 
^Bch  precious  woe  the  price! 


183  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

LETTER  CXI. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 
My  dear  Friend,  The  Lodge^  June  5,  1789, 

I  am  going  to  give  you  a  deal  of  trouble, 
but  London  folks  must  be  content  to  be  troubled  by  country  folks ; 
for  in  London  only  can  our  strange  necessities  be  supplied.  You 
must  buy  for  me,  if  you  please,  a  cuckow-clock ;  and  now  I  will 
tell  you  where  they  are  sold,  which,  Londoner  as  you  are,  it  is 
possible  you  may  not  know.  They  are  sold,  I  am  informed,  at 
more  houses  than  one  in  that  narrow  part  of  Holborn  which  leads 
into  Broad  St.  Giles'.  It  seems  they  are  well-going  clocks,  and 
cheap,  which  are  the  two  best  recommendations  of  any  clock. 
They  are  made  in  Germany,  and  such  numbers  of  them  are  annu- 
ally imported,  that  they  are  become  even  a  considerable  article  of 
commerce. 

I  return  you  many  thanks  for  Boswell's  Tour.  I  read  it  to  Mrs. 
Unwin  after  supper,  and  we  find  it  amusing.  There  is  much  trash 
in  it,  as  there  must  always  be  in  every  narrative  that  relates  in- 
discriminately all  that  passed.  But  now  and  then  the  Doctor 
speaks  like  an  oracle,  and  that  makes  amends  for  all.  Sir  John 
was  a  coxcomb,  and  Boswell  is  not  less  a  coxcomb,  though  of  an- 
other kind.  I  fancy  Johnson  made  coxcombs  of  all  his  friends, 
and  they,  in  return,  made  him  a  coxcomb ;  for,  with  reverence 
be  it  spoken,  such  he  certainly  was,  and,  flattered  as  he  was,  he 
was  sure  to  be  so. 

Thanks  for  your  invitation  to  London,  but  unless  London  can 
come  to  me,  I  fear  we  shall  never  meet.  I  was  sure  that  you 
■vvould  love  my  friend  when  you  should  once  be  well  acquainte<^ 
tv-ith  him  ;  and  equally  sure  that  he  would  take  kindly  to  you. 

Now  for  Homer.  W«  C* 


LETTER  CXII. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 
Amico  MEG,  The  Lodge,  Jmie  20,  1789. 

I  am  truly  sorry  that  it  must  be  so  long 
before  we  can  have  an  opportunity  to  meet.  My  cousin,  in  her 
last  letter  but  one,  inspired  me  with  other  expectations,  expressing 
a  purpose,  if  the  matter  could  be  so  contrived,  of  bringing  you 
with  her.  I  was  willing  to  believe  that  you  had  consulted  together 
on  the  subject,  and  found  it  feasible.  A  month  was  formerly  a 
trifle  in  my  account,  but  at  my  present  age  I  give  it  all  its  im- 
portance, and  gi'udge  that  so  many  months  should  yet  pass  in 


LIFE  OF  COVVPER.  189 

^v]lich  I  liave  not  even  a  glimpse  of  those  I  love ;  and  of  wliom,  the 
course  of  natiu'e  considered,  I  must  crc  long  take  leave  fur  ever. 
But  I  shall  live  till  August. 

Many  thanks  for  the  cuckow,  which  arrived  perfectly  safe, 
and  goes  well,  to  the  amusement  and  amazement  of  all  who  hear 
it.  Hannah  lies  awake  to  hear  it ;  and  I  am  not  sure  that  we  have 
not  others  in  the  house  that  admire  his  music  as  much  as  she. 

Having  read  both  Hawkins  and  Boswell,  I  now  think  myself 
almost  as  much  a  master  of  Johnson's  character  as  if  I  had  known 
him  personally ;  and  cannot  but  regret,  that  our  bards  of  other 
times  found  no  such  biographers  as  these.  They  have  both  been 
ridiculed,  and  the  wits  have  had  their  laugh  ;  but  such  an  history 
of  Milton  or  Shakspeare  as  they  have  given  of  Johnson — Oh, 
^ow  desirable  !  VV.  C. 

LETTER  CXin. 
To  Mrs.  THROCKMORTON. 

July  18,  1789. 
Many  thanks,  my  dear  Madam,  for  your 
extract  from  George's  letter !  I  retain  but  little  Italian  ;  yet  that 
little  was  so  forcibly  mustered,  by  the  consciousness  that  I  was 
myself  the  subject,  that  I  presently  became  master  of  it.  I  have 
always  said  that  George  is  a  poet,  and  I  am  never  in  his  company 
but  I  discover  proofs  of  it ;  and  the  delicate  address  by  which  he 
has  managed  his  complimentaiy  mention  of  me,  convinces  me  of 
it  still  more  than  ever.  Here  are  a  thousand  poets  of  us  who  have 
impudence  enough  to  write  for  the  public ;  but  amongst  the  modest 
men,  who  are  by  diffidence  restrained  from  such  ancnterprize,are 
those  who  would  eclipse  us  all.  I  wish  that  George  would  make  the 
experiment:   I  would  bind  on  his  laurels  with  my  own  hand. 

Your  gardener  has  gone  after  his  wife  ;  but  having  neglected  to 
take  his  lyre,  alias  fiddle,  with  him,  has  not  yet  brought  home  his 
Eurydice.  Your  clock  in  the  hall  has  stopped  ;  and,  strange  to 
tell,  it  stopped  at  sight  of  the  watch-maker!  For  he  only  looked 
at  it,  and  it  has  been  motionless  ever  since.  Mr.  Gregson  is  gone, 
and  the  Hall  is  a  desolation.  Pray  dont  think  any  place  j)lcasant 
that  you  may  find  in  your  rambles,  that  we  maA'  see  you  the  sooner. 
Your  aviary  is  all  in  good  health.  I  pass  it  every  day,  and  often 
.inquire  at  the  lattice ;  the  inhabitants  of  it  send  their  duty,  and 
wish  for  your  return.  I  took  notice  of  the  inscription  on  your 
seal,  and  had  v/e  an  artist  here  capable  of  funiisliing  me  widi  an- 
other, you  should  read  on  mine,  "  Encore  une  lettre." 

Adieu.  VV.  C\ 


190  IME  OF  COWPER. 


LETTER  CXn^ 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

The  Lodge,  July  23,  178^. 
You  do  well,  my  dear  Sir,  to  improve 
yast  opportunity-:  to  speak  in  the  rural  phrase,  this  is  your  sow-» 
ing  time,  and  the  shea%'«s  you  look  for  can  never  be  yours  unless 
you  make  that  lise  of  it.  The  colour  of  our  whole  life  is  gene- 
rally such  a?  the  three  or  four  first  years,  in  vdiich  we  ai-e  our 
own  masters,  make  it.  Then  it  is  tliat  we  may  be  said  to  shape 
t»ur  own  destiny,  and  to  treasui'e  up  for  ourselves  a  series  of  futur6 
Successes  or  disappointments.  Had  I  employed  my  time  as  wisely 
as  you,  in  a  situation  very  similar  to  yours,  I  had  never  been  a 
}>oet  perhaps,  but  I  might  by  this  time  have  acquired  a  character 
bf  more  importance  in  society,  and  a  situation  in  which  my  fi-iends 
would  have  been  better  pleased  to  see  me.  But  three  years  mis- 
Spent  in  an  attorney's  office,  were  almost  of  course  followed  by 
iseveral  more  equally  mis-spent  in  the  temple ;  and  the  conse- 
quence has  been,  as  the  Italian  epitaph  says,  "  Sto  qui."  The 
only  use  1  can  make  of  myself  now,  at  least  the  best,  is  to  serve 
in  terrorevi  to  others,  when  occasion  may  happen  to  offer,  that 
they  may  escape  (so  far  as  my  admonitions  can  have  any  weight 
■with  them)  my  folly  and  my  fate.  When  you  feel  yourself  tempted 
to  relax  a  little  of  the  strictness  of  your  present  discipline,  and 
to  indulge  in  amusement  incompatible  with  your  future  interests, 
think  on  your  friend  at  Weston. 

Having  said  this,  i  shall  next,  with  my  whole  heart,  invite  you 
hither,  and  assui-e  you  that  I  look  forw  ard  to  approaching  August 
with  great  pleasure ;  because  it  promises  me  your  company.  After 
fe.  little  time  (which  We  shall  wish  longer)  spent  with  us,  you  will 
feturn  invigorated  to  your  studies,  and  pursue  them  with  the  more 
advantage*  In  the  mean  time  yoU  haxe  lost  little,  in  point  of  sea- 
Son,  by  being  confined  to  London.  Incessant  rains,  and  meadows 
under  water,  have  given  to  the  summer  the  air  of  winter,  and  the 
country  has  been  deprived  of  half  its  beauties. 

It  is  time  to  tell  you  that  we  are  all  well,  and  often  make  you 
our  subject.  This  is  the  third  meeting  that  my  cousin  and  we  have 
had  in  this  country;  and  a  gi-eat  instance  of  good  fortune  I  account 
it,  in  such  a  world  as  this,  to  have  expected  such  a  pleasui'e  thrice 
without  being  once  disappointed.  Add  to  this  wonder  as  soon  as 
you  can,  by  making  yourself  of  the  party* 

Wi  c» 


'  > 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  151 

LETTER  CXV. 
To  Sx\MUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

WcstQUy  August  8,  IT89, 

My  dear  Friend, 

Come  when  you  -will,  or  when  you  can, 
you  cannot  come  at  a  wrong  time ;  but  we  shall  expect  you  on  the 
day  mentioned. 

If  you  have  any  book  iliat  you  think  will  make  pleasant  even- 
ing  reading,  bring  it  with  you.  I  now  read  Mrs.  Piozzi's  Travels 
to  the  ladies  after  supper,  and  shall  probably  have  finished  them 
before  we  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you.  It  is  the  fasliion, 
I  understand,  to  condemn  them.  But  we,  who  make  books  our- 
selves, are  more  merciful  to  book-makers.  I  would  that  eveiy 
fastidious  judge  of  authors  were  himself  obliged  to  write:  there 
goes  more  to  the  composition  of  a  volume  than  many  critics  ima- 
gine. I  have  often  wondered  that  the  same  poet  who  wrote  th« 
Dunciad  should  have  written  these  lines— 


■  The  mercy  I  to  others  show, 
"  niat  mercy  show  to  me." 


Alas  !  for  Pope,  if  the  mercy  lie  showed  to  otliers  was  the  mea- 
sure of  the  mercy  he  rec  ived !  He  was  the  less  pardonable  too, 
because  experienced  in  all  the  difficulties  of  composition. 

I  scratch  this  between  dinner  and  tea ;  a  time  when  I  cannot 
write  much  without  disordeiing  my  noddle,  and  bringing  a  flusU 
into  my  face.  You  will  excuse  me,  therefore,  if,  through  respect 
for  tlie  two  important  considerations  of  health  aiid  beauty,  I  con« 
elude  myself 

Ever  yours,  W.  C. 

LETTER  CXVL 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

JVesion,  Se/it.  24,  1789. 
My  dear  Friend, 

You  left  us  exactly  at  the  wrong  time. 
Had  you  staid  till  now,  you  would  have  had  the  pleasure  of  hear- 
ing even  my  cousin  say,  "  I  am  cold;"  and  the  still  greater  plea- 
sure of  being  warm  yourself;  for  I  have  had  a  fire  in  the  study 
ever  since  you  went.  It  is  tl»c  fault  of  our  summei"s  tliat  they  are 
hardly  ever  warm  or  cold  enough.  Were  they  warmer  we  should 
not  want  a  fire,  and  were  they  colder  we  should  have  onci, 


192  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

I  have  twice  seen  and  conversed  with  Mr.  J .     He  is  ivitty, 

intelligent,  and  agreeable  beyond  the  common  measure  of  men 
who  are  so.  But  it  is  the  constant  effect  of  a  spirit  of  party  to  make 
those  hateful  to  each  other  who  are  truly  amiable  in  themselves. 

Beau  sends  his  love ;  he  was  melancholy  the  whole  day  after 
your  departure.  W.  C. 


LETTER  CXVn. 

To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

Weston,  Se/it.  11,  1788. 
My  dear  Friend, 

The  hamper  is  come,  and  come  safe ; 
and  the  contents  I  can  affirm,  on  my  own  knowledge,  are  excel- 
lent. It  chanced  that  another  hamper  and  a  box  came  by  the 
same  conveyance,  all  which  I  unpacked  and  expounded  in  the  hall ; 
my  cousin  sitting  mean  time  on  the  stairs,  spectatress  of  the  busi- 
ness. We  diverted  ourselves  with  imagining  the  manner  in  which. 
Homer  would  have  described  the  scene.  Detailed  in  his  circum- 
stantial way,  it  would  have  furnished  materials  for  a  paragraph  of 
cx)nsiderable  length  in  an  Odyssey. 

The  straw-stuff 'd  hamper  Avith  his  ruthless  steel 
He  open'd,  cutting  sheer  th'  inserted  cords 
Which  bound  the  lid  and  lip  secure.     Forth  came 
The  rustling  package  first,  bright  straw  of  wheat, 
Or  oats,  or  barley ;  next  a  bottle  green 
Throat-full,  clear  spirits  the  contents,  distill'd 
Drop  after  drop  odorous,  by  the  art 
Of  the  fair  mother  of  his  friend — the  Rose. 

And  so  on. 
I  should  rejoice  to  be  the  hero  of  such  a  tale  in  the  hands  of  Homer. 
You  will  remember,  I  trust,  that  when  the  state  of  your  health 
or  spirits  calls  for  rural  walks  and  fresh  air,  you  have  always  a  re- 
treat at  Weston. 

We  are  all  Avell,  all  love  you,  down  to  the  very  dog  ;  and  shall 
be  glad  to  hear  that  you  have  exchanged  languor  for  alacrity,  and 
the  debility  that  you  mention,  for  indefatigable  vigour. 

Mr.  Throckmorton  has  made  me  a  handsome  present :  Villois- 
son's  edition  of  the  Iliad,  elegantly  bound  by  Edwards.  If  I  live 
long  enougli,  by  the  contributions  of  my  friends,  I  shall  once  more 
be  possessed  of  a  library.  W.  C. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  193 

LETTER  CXVin. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,    Esquire. 

Dec.  18,  1789. 
My  DEAR  Friend, 

The  present  appears  to  me  a  wonderful 
period  in  the  history  of  mankind.  That  nations  so  long  conientedly 
slaves  should,  on  a  sudden,  become  enamoured  of  libei-ty,  and  un- 
derstand, as  suddenly,  their  own  natural  right  to  it,  feeling  them- 
selves, at  the  same  time,  uispired  with  resolution  to  assert  it,  seems 
difficult  to  account  for  from  natural  causes.  VMth  respect  to  the 
final  issue  of  all  this,  I  can  only  say,  that  if,  having  discovered  the 
value  of  liberty,  they  should  next  discover  the  value  of  peace,  and, 
lastly,  the  value  of  the  word  of  God,  they  will  be  happier  than 
they  ever  were  since  the  rebellion  of  the  first  pair,  and  as  happy 
as  it  is  possible  they  should  be  in  the  present  life. 

Most  sincerely  yours,  W.  C. 

LETTER  CXIX. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

The  Lodge ^  Jan.  3,  1790. 
Mv  DEAR  Sir, 

I  have  been  long  silent,  but  you  have  had 
the  charity,  I  hope  and  believe,  not  to  ascribe  my  silence  to  a 
■wrong  cause.  The  truth  is,  I  have  been  too  busy  to  write  to  any 
body,  having  be6n  obliged  to  give  my  early  mornings  to  the  revi- 
sal  and  correction  of  a  little  volume  of  Hymns  for  Children,  writ- 
ten by,  I  know  not  whom.  This  task  I  finished  but  yesterday,  and 
while  it  was  in  hand,  Avrote  only  to  my  cousin,  and  to  her  rarely. 
From  her,  however,  I  knew  that  you  would  hear  of  my  well-be- 
ing, which  made  me  less  anxious  about  my  debts  to  you  than  I 
could  have  been  otherwise. 

I  am  almost  the  only  person  at  Weston,  known  to  you,  who  have 
enjoyed  tolerable  health  this  winter.  In  your  next  letter  give  us 
some  account  of  your  own  state  of  health,  for  I  have  had  my  anxi- 
eties about  you.  The  winter  has  been  mild ;  but  our  winters  are, 
in  general,  such,  that  when  a  friend  leaves  us  in  the  beginning  of 
that  season,  I  always  feel  in  my  lieart  a  perha/is^  importing  that 
we  have  possibly  met  for  the  last  time,  and  that  the  robins  may 
whistle  on  the  grave  of  one  of  us  before  the  return  of  summer. 

I  am  still  thrumming  Homer's  lyre  ;  that  is  to  say,  I  am  still  cm- 
ployed  in  my  last  revisal ;  and  to  give  you  some  idea  of  the  in- 
tenseness  of  my  toils,  I  will  inform  you  that  it  cost  me  all  the 

VOL.  I.  C  C 


394  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

morning  yesterday,  and  all  the  evening,  to  translate  a  single  simile 
to  my  mind.  The  transitions  from  one  member  of  the  subject  to 
another,  though  easy  and  natural  in  the  Greek,  turn  out  often  so 
intolerably  aukward  in  an  English  version,  that  almost  endless  la- 
bour, and  no  little  address,  are  requisite  to  give  them  grace  and 
elegance.  I  forget  if  I  told  you  that  your  German  Clavis  has  been 
of  considerable  use  to  me.  I  am  indebted  to  it  for  a  right  under- 
standing of  the  manner  in  which  Achilles  prepared  pork,  mutton, 
and  goat's  flesh  for  the  entertainment  of  his  friends,  in  the  night 
when  they  came  deputed  by  Agamemnon  to  negociate  a  reconcili- 
ation :  a  passage  of  which  nobody  in  tlie  world  is  perfectly  mas- 
ter, myself  only  and  Schaufelbergerus  excepted,  nor  ever  was,  ex- 
cept when  Greek  was  a  live  language. 

I  do  not  know  whether  my  cousin  has  told  you  or  not,  how  I 
brag  in  my  letters  to  her  concerning  my  translation  ;  perhaps  hei" 
modesty  feels  more  for  me  than  mine  for  myself,  and  she  would 
bJush  to  let  even  you  know  the  degree  of  my  self-conceit  on  that 
subject.  I  will  tell  you,  however,  expressing  myself  as  decently 
as  vanity  will  permit,  that  it  has  undergone  such  a  change  for  the 
better  in  this  revisal,  that  I  have  much  warmer  hopes  of  success 
Shan  formerly.  W.  C* 


LETTER  CXX. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge.)  Jan.  23,  1790., 
My  dear  Coz. 

I  had  a  letter  yesterday  from  the  wild 
boy  Johnson,  for  whom  I  have  conceived  a  great  affection.  It  was 
just  such  a  letten  as  I  like,  of  the  true  helter-skelter  kind ;  and 
though  he  writes  a  remarkable  good  hand,  scribbled  with  such  ra- 
pidity, that  it  was  barely  legible.  He  gave  me  a  droll  account  of 
the  adventures  of  Lord  Howard's  note,  and  of  his  own  in  pursuit 
of  it.  The  poem  he  brought  me  came  as  from  Lord  Howard, 
with  liis  Lordship's  request  that  I  would  revise  it.  It  is  in  the  form 
of  a  pastoral,  and  is  entitled,  "  Tale  of  the  Lute,  oi*,  the  Beauties 
of  Audley  End."  I  i-ead  it  attentively;  was  muck  pleased  with 
part  of  it,  and  part  of  it  I  equally  disliked.  I  told  him  so,  and  in 
such  terms  as  one  naturally  uses  when  there  seems  to  be  no  occasion 
to  qualify,  or  to  alleviate  censure.  I  observed  him  afterwards 
somewhat  more  thoughtful  and  silent,  but  occasionally  as  pleasant 
as  usual ;  and  in  Kihvick-wood,  where  we  walked  the  next  day, 
the  truth  came  out,  that  he  was  himself  the  autlior,  and  that  Lord 
Howard,  not  approving  it  altogether,  and  sexerul  friends  of  his 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  195 

b'Wn  age,  to  -whom  he  had  sliown  it,  differing  from  his  Lordship  in 
opinion,  and  being  highly  pleased  with  it,  he  liad  come  at  last  to  a 
resolution  to  abide  by  my  judgment;  a  measure  to  which  Lord 
Howard  by  all  means  advised  him.  He  accordingly  brought  it,  and 
will  bring  it  again  in  the  summer,  when  we  shall  lay  our  heads 
together,  and  try  to  mend  it. 

I  have  lately  had  a  letter  also  from  Mrs.  King,  to  whom,  indeed, 
I  had  written  to  inquire  whether  she  were  living  or  dead  ;  she  tells 
me,  the  critics  expect  from  my  Homer  every  thing  in  some  parts, 
and  that,  in  others,  I  shall  fall  short.  These  are  the  Cambridge  ' 
critics ;  and  she  has  her  intelligence  from  the  botanical  professor, 
Martyn.  Tliat  gentleman,  in  reply,  answers  them,  that  I  shall 
fall  short  in  nothing,  but  shall  disappoint  them  all.  It  shall  be  mj 
endeavour  to  do  so,  and  I  am  not  without  hope  of  succeeding. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  CXXI. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

T/ie  Lodge,  Feb.  2,  1790. 
Mt  dear  Friend, 

Should  Heyne's  Homer  appear  before 
mine,  which  I  hope  is  not  probable,  and  should  he  adopt  in  it  the 
opinion  of  Bentley,  that  the  whole  last  Odyssey  is  spurious,  I  will 
dare  to  contradict  both  him  and  the  Doctor.  I  am  only  in  part  of 
Bentley's  mind  (if  indeed  his  mind  were  such)  in  this  matter,  and, 
giant  as  he  was  in  learning,  and  eagle-eyed  in  criticism,  am  per- 
suaded, convinced,  and  sure,  (can  I  be  more  positive?)  that,  ex- 
cept from  the  moment  when  the  Ithacans  begin  to  meditate  an 
attack  on  the  cottage  of  Laertes,  and  thence  to  the  end,  that  book 
is  the  work  of  Homer.  From  the  moment  aforesaid  I  yield  the 
point,  or  rather  have  never,  since  I  had  any  skill  in  Homer,  felt 
myself  at  all  inclined  to  dispute  it.  But  I  believe  perfectly,  at  the 
same  time,  that,  Homer  liimself  alone  excepted,  the  Greek  poet 
never  existed  wlio  could  have  written  the  speeches  made  by  the 
shade  of  Agamemnon ;  in  which  tliere  is  more  insight  into  the  hu- 
man heart  discovered  than  I  ever  saw  in  any  other  work,  unless 
in  Shakspcare's.  I  am  equally  disposed  to  fight  for  the  wliole  pas- 
sage that  describes  Laertes,  and  the  interview  l)etwcen  iiim  and 
Ulysses.  Let  Bentley  grant  these  to  Homer,  and  I  will  shake 
liands  witli  him  as  to  all  tlie  rest.  The  battle  witli  which  the  book 
concludes  is,  I  think,  a  paltry  battle,  and  there  is  a  Imddle  I'n  tlic 
management  of  it,  altogether  imwortliy  of  my  favourite,  and  th<j 
favourite  of  all  agcs» 


19«  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

If  j'ou  should  happen  to  fall  into  company  with  Dr.  Warton 
again,  you  will  not,  I  dare  say,  forget  to  make  him  my  I'espect- 
ful  compliments,  and  to  assure  him  that  I  felt  myself  not  a  little 
Battered  by  the  favourable  mention  he  was  pleased  to  make  of  me 
and  my  labours.  The  poet  who  pleases  a  man  like  him  has  no- 
thing left  to  wish  for.  I  am  glad  that  you  were  pleased  with  my 
young  cousin  Johnson ;  he  is  a  boy,  and  bashfiil,  but  has  gi-eat  me- 
rit in  respect  both  of  character  and  intellect.  So  far  at  least  as  in 
a  week's  knowledge  of  him  I  could  possibly  learn,  he  is  very  am^ 
able  and  very  sensible,  and  inspired  me  with  a  warm  wish  to  know 
him  better.  W.  C. 


LETTER  CXXn. 

To   Lady   HESKETH. 

Th6  Lodge,  Feb,  9,  \790» 
I  have  sent  you  lately  scraps  instead  of 
letters,  having  had  occasion  to  answer  inunediately  on  the  receipt, 
ivhich  always  happens  when  I  am  deefi  in  Homer, 

I  knew,  when  I  recommended  Johnson  to  you,  that  you  would  find 
some  way  to  serve  him,  and  so  it  has  happened  ;  for,  notwithstand- 
ing your  own  apprehensions  to  the  contrary,  you  have  already  pro- 
cured him  a  chaplainship.  This  is  pretty  weU,  considering  that  it 
is  an  earl)'  day,  and  that  you  have  but  just  begun  to  know  that  there 
is  such  a  man  under  heaven.  I  had  rather  myself  be  patronized 
by  a  person  of  small  interest,  with  a  heart  like  yours,  than  by  the 
Chancellor  himself,  if  he  did  not  care  a  farthing  for  me. 

If  I  did  not  desire  you  to  make  my  acknowledgments  to  Anony- 
mous, as  I  believe  I  did  not,  it  was  because  I  am  not  aware  that  I 
am  warranted  to  do  so.  But  the  omission  is  of  less  consequence, 
because,  whoever  he  is,  though  he  has  no  objection  to  doing  the 
kindest  things,  he  seems  to  have  an  aversion  to  the  thanks  they 
merit. 

You  must  know,  that  two  Odes,  composed  by  Horace,  have  lately 
been  discovered  at  Rome:  I  wanted  them  transcribed  into  the 
blank  leaves  of  a  little  Horace  of  mine,  and  Mrs.  Throckmorton 
performed  that  service  for  me  :  in  a  blank  leaf,  therefore,  of  the 
same  book)  I  wrote  the  following. 

vv.  c. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  1>7 

To  Mrs.  THROCKMORTON, 

On  her  beautiful  Transcrifit  of  Horace's  Ode,  Ad  librtfm  sunm. 

Maria,  could  Horace  have  guess'd 

What  honours  awaited  his  Ode, 
To  his  own  httle  volume  address'd, 

The  honour  which  you  have  bestow'd ; 
Who  have  trac'd  it  in  characters  here, 

So  elegant,  even,  and  neat ; 
He  had  laugh 'd  at  the  critical  sneer 

Which  he  seems  to  have  trembled  to  meet. 

And  sneer,  if  you  please,  he  had  said, 

Hereafter  a  nymph  shall  arise. 
Who  shall  give  me,  when  you  are  all  dead, 

The  glory  your  malice  denies ; 
Shall  dignity  give  to  my  lay, 

Although  but  a  mere  bagatelle  ; 
And  even  a  poet  shall  say, 

Nothing  ever  was  written  so  well* 

LETTER   CXXIII. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

Feb.  26,  1790. 
You  have  set  my  heart  at  ease,  my  cousin, 
so  far  as  you  were  yourself  the  object  of  its  anxieties.  What  other 
troubles  it  feels  can  be  cured  by  God  alone.  But  you  are  never 
silent  a  week  longer  than  usual,  without  giving  an  opportunity  to 
my  imagination  (ever  fruitful  in  flowers  of  a  sable  hue)  to  teaze 
me  with  them  day  and  night.  London  is,  indeed,  a  pestilent  place, 
as  you  call  it,  and  I  would,  with  all  my  heart,  that  thou  hadst  lebs 
to  do  with  it:  were  you  under  the  same  roof  with  me,  I  should 
know  you  to  be  safe,  and  should  never  distress  you  with  melan- 
choly letters. 

I  feel  myself  well  enough  inclined  to  the  measure  you  propose, 
and  will  show  to  your  new  acquaintance,  with  all  my  heart,  a  sample 
of  my  translation.  But  it  shall  not  be,  if  you  please,  taken  from 
the  Odyssey.  It  is  a  poem  of  a  gentler  character  than  the  Iliad, 
and  as  I  propose  to  carry  her  by  a  cou/i  de  main,  I  shall  em])loy 
Achilles,  Agamemnon,  and  the  two  armies  of  Greece  and  Troy, 
ia  my  service.     I  will  accordingly  send  you,  in  the  box  that  I  re- 


'm  LIFE  OF  COWPER* 

ceived  from  you  last  night,  the  two  first  Iwoks  of  the  Iliad,  for  that 
lady's  perusal :  to  those  I  have  given  a  third  revisal ;  for  them, 
therefore,  I  will  be  answerable,  and  am  not  afraid  to  stake  the 
credit  of  my  work  upon  them  with  her,  or  with  any  living  wight, 
especially  one  who  understands  the  original.  I  do  not  mean  that 
even  they  are  finished ;  for  I  shall  examine  and  cross-examine 
them  yet  again,  and  so  you  may  tfell  her  ;  but  I  know  that  they  will 
not  disgrace  me ;  whereas  it  is  so  long  since  I  have  looked  at  the 
Odj^ssey,  that  I  know  nothing  at  all  aljout  it.  They  shall  set  sail 
from  Olney  on  Monda.y  morning  in  the  Diligence,  and  will  reach 
you,  I  hope,  in  the  evening.  As  soon  as  she  is  done  with  them,  I 
shall  be  glad  to  ha^-e  them  again  ;  for  the  time  draws  near  when  I 
shall  want  to  give  them  the  last  touch. 

I  am  delighted  with  Mrs.  Bodliam's  kindness  in  giving  me  the 
only  picture  of  my  own  mother  that  is  to  be  found,  I  suppose,  in  all 
the  world.  I  had  rather  possess  it  than  the  richest  jewel  in  the 
British  crown,  for  I  loved  her  with  an  affection  that  her  death,  fifty- 
two  years  since,  has  not  in  the  least  abated.  I  remember  her  too, 
young  as  I  was,  when  she  died,  well  enough  to  know  that  it  is  a 
very  exact  resemblance  of  her,  and,  as  such,  it  is  to  me  invaluable. 
Every  body  loved  her,  and,  with  an  amiable  character  so  impres- 
sed on  all  her  features,  every  body  was  sure  to  do  so. 

I  have  a  very  affectionate,  and  a  very  clever  letter  from  John- 
son, who  promises  me  the  transcript  of  the  books  entrusted  to  him 
in  a  few  days.  I  have  a  grea.t  love  for  that  young  man  ;  he  has 
some  drops  of  the  same  stream  in  his  veins  that  once  animated  the 
original  of  that  dear  picture.  V\'.  C. 


LETTER  CXXIV. 

To  Mrs.  BODHAM. 

JFeston,  Feb.  27,  1790^ 
My  DEAREST  Rose, 

Whom  I  thought  withered,  and  fallen 
from  the  stalk,  but  whom  I  find  still  alive  :  nothing  could  give  me 
greater  pleasure  than  to  know  it,  and  to  learn  it  from  yourself.  I 
loved  you  dearly  when  you  were  a  cliild,  and  love  you  not  a  jot  the 
less  for  having  ceased  to  be  so.  Every  creature  that  bears  any 
affinity  to  my  own  mother  is  dear  to  me,  and  you,  the  daughter  of 
her  brother,  are  bvit  one  remove  distant  from  her:  I  love  you, 
therefore,  and  love  you  much,  both  for  her  sake  and  for  your 
own.  The  world  could  not  have  furnished  you  with  a  present  so 
acceptable  to  me  as  the  pictur/e  which  you  have  so  kindly  sent  me, 
T  received  it  the  niglit  before  last,  and  viewed  it  with  a  trepidation, 


LIFE  OF  COWTER.  199 

ftf  nerves  and  spirits  somewluit  akin  to  what  I  should  have  felt 
had  the  dear  original  presented  herself  to  my  embraces.  I  kissed 
it,  and  hung  it  where  it  is  the  last  object  that  I  see  at  night,  and, 
of  course,  the  first  on  which  I  open  my  eyes  in  the  morning.  She 
died  when  I  had  completed  my  sixth  year,  yet  I  remember  her 
well,  and  am  an  ocular  witness  of  the  great  fidelity  of  the  copy. 
I  remember,too,  a  multitude  of  the  maternal  tendernesses  which  I 
received  from  her,  and  which  have  endeared  her  memory  to  me 
beyond  expression.  There  is  in  me,  I  believe,  more  of  die  Donne 
than  of  the  Cowper,  and  though  I  love  all  of  both  names,  and  have 
a  thousand  reasons  to  love  those  of  my  own  name,  yet  I  feel  the 
bond  of  nature  draw  me  vehemently  to  your  side.  I  was  thouglit, 
in  the  days  of  my  childhood,  much  to  resemble  my  mother ;  and,  in 
my  natural  temper,  of  which,  at  the  age  of  fifty-eight,  I  must  be 
supposed  a  competent  judge,  can  trace  both  her  and  my  late  uncle, 
your  father.     Somewhat  of  his  irritability,  and  a  little,  I  would 

hope,  both  of  his  and  of  her  — ,  I  know  not  what  to  call  it, 

Avithout  seeming  to  praise  myself,  which  is  not  my  intention ;  but, 
speaking  to  you,  I  will  even  speak  out,  and  say  good-nature.  Add 
to  all  this,  I  deal  much  in  poetry,  as  did  our  venerable  ancestor^ 
the  Dean  of  St.  Paid's,  and  I  think  I  shall  have  proved  myself  a 
Donne  at  all  points.  The  truth  is,  that  whatever  I  am,  I  love 
you  all. 

I  account  it  a  happy  event  that  brought  the  dear  boy,  your 
Fiephew,  to  my  knowledge,  and  that,  breaking  through  ail  the  re- 
straints which  his  natural  bashfulness  imposed  on  him,  he  deter- 
mined to  fiad  me  out.  He  is  amiable  to  a  degree  that  I  have  sel- 
dom seen,  iuid  I  often  long  with  impatience  to  see  him  again. 

My  dearest  cousin,  what  shall  I  say  in  answer  to  your  affec- 
tionate invitation  ?  I  must  say  this,  I  cannot  come  now,  nor  soon, 
and  I  wish,  with  all  my  heart,  I  could.  But  I  will  tell  you  what 
may  be  done,  perhaps,  and  it  will  answer  to  us  just  as  well:  you 
and  Mr.  Bodham  can  come  to  Weston,  can  you  not  ?  The  sum- 
mer is  at  hand  ;  there  are  roads  and  wheels  to  brmg  you,  and  you 
are  neither  of  you  translating  Homer.  I  am  crazed  that  I  cannot 
ask  you  altogether,  for  want  of  house-room,  but  for  Mr.  Bodham 
and  yourself  we  have  good  room,  and  equally  good  for  any  third 
in  the  shape  of  a  Donne,  whether  named  Hewitt,  Bodham,  Ball;;, 
or  Johnson,  or  by  whatever  name  distinguished.  Mrs.  Hewitt  has 
particular  claims  upon  me;  she  was  my  pluy-fellow  at  Berkham- 
Ktead,  and  has  a  share  in  my  v/armest  afi'ections.  Pray  tell  her  so. 
Neither  do  I  at  all  forget  my  cousin  Harriet.  She  and  I  have  been 
many  a  time  merry  at  Catfield,  and  have  made  the  parsonage  ring 
with  laughter.    Give  my  love  to  her.    3u;sui-c  youi'self,  my  dearer: 


dOO  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

cousin,  that  I  shall  receive  you  as  if  you  were  my  sister,  and  Mrs. 
Unwin  is,  for  my  sake,  prepared  to  do  the  same.  When  she  ha» 
seen  you,  she  will  love  you  for  your  own, 

I  am  much  obliged  to  Mr.  Bodham  for  his  kindness  to  my  Ho- 
mer, and  with  my  love  to  you  all,  and  with  Mrs.  Unwin's  kind 
respects,  am,  my  dear,  deas  Rose,  ever  yours,  W.  C. 

P.  S.  I  mourn  the  death  of  your  poor  brother  Castres,  whom  I 
should  have  seen  had  he  lived,  and  should  have  seen  with  the 
greatest  pleasure.  He  was  an  amiable  boy,  and  I  was  very  fond 
of  him. 

Still  another  P.  S, — I  find,  on  consulting  Mrs,  Unwin,  that  I 
have  under-rated  our  capabilities,  and  that  we  have  not  only  room 
for  you  and  Mr.  Bodham,  but  for  two  of  your  sex,  and  even  for 
your  nephew  into  the  bargain.  We  shall  be  happy  to  have  it  all  so 
occupied. 

Your  nephew  tells  me  that  his  sister,  in  the  qualities  of  the 
mind,  resembles  you ;  that  is  enough  to  make  her  dear  to  me,  and 
I  beg  you  will  assure  her  that  she  is  so.  Let  it  not  be  long  before 
I  hear  from  you. 

LETTER  CXXV, 

To  JOHN  JOHNSON,  Esquire, 

Weston,  Feb,  28,  1790. 
My  dear  Cousin  John, 

I  have  much  wished  to  hear  from  you, 
and  though  you  are  welcome  to  write  to  Mrs.  Unwin  as  often  as 
you  please,  I  wish  myself  to  be  numbered  among  your  corres- 
pondents. 

I  shaU  find  time  to  answer  you,  doubt  it  not  I  Be  as  busy  as  we 
may,  we  can  always  find  time  to  do  what  is  agreeable  to  us.  By 
the  way,  had  you  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Unwin  ?  I  am  witness  that 
she  addressed  one  to  you  before  you  went  into  Norfolk ;  but  your 
mathematico-poetical  head  forgot  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  it. 

I  was  never  more  pleased  in  my  life  than  to  learn,  and  to  learn 
from  herself,  that  my  dearest  Rose*  is  still  alive.  Had  she  not 
engaged  me  to  love  her  by  the  sweetness  of  her  character  when 
a  child,  she  would  have  done  it  effectually  now,  by  making  me  the 
most  acceptable  present  in  the  world — my  own  dear  mother's  pic- 
ture. I  am,  perhaps,  the  only  person  living  who  remembers  her, 
but  I  remember  her  well,  and  can  attest,  on  my  own  knowledge, 
tlie  truth  of  the  resemblance.    Amiable  and  elegant  as  the  coun- 

*  Mrs,  Ann  Bodham. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  301 

tenance  is,  such  exactly  was  her  own :  she  was  one  of  die  tenclerest 
parents,  and  so  just  a  copy  oi  her  is,  therefore,  to  me  invaluable. 
1  wrote  yesrerday  to  my  Rose,  to  tell  her  all  this,  and  to  thank 
her  fur  her  kindness  in  sending  it ;  neither  do  I  forget  your  kind- 
ness who  intimated  to  her  that  I  should  be  happy  to  possess  it. 

She  invites  me  into  Norfolk ;  but,  alas !  she  might  as  well  invite 
the  house  in  which  I  dwell ;  for,  all  other  considerations  and  im- 
pediments apart,  how  is  it  possible  that  a  translator  of  Homer 
should  lumber  to  such  a  distance?     But  though  I  cannot  comply 
with  her  kind  invitation,  I  have  made  myself  the  best  amends  in 
my  pov/er,  by  inviting  her,  and  all  the  family  of  Dcnnes,  to  Wes- 
ton.    Perhaps  we  could  not  accommodate  them  all  at  once,  but 
in  succession  we  could;  and  can  at  any  time  find  room  for  five^" 
three  of  them  being  females,  and  one  a  married  one.     You  are  ^ 
mathematician ;  tell  me,  then,  how  five  persons  can  be  lodged  in 
three  beds,  two  males  and  three  fem.ales  ;   and  I  shall  have  good 
hope  that  j-ou  will  proceed  a  senior  optime.     It  would  make  me 
happy  to  see  our  house  so  furnished.    As  to  yourself,  whom  I  know 
to  be  a  subscalarian^  or  a  man  that  sleeps  under  the  stairs,  I 
should  have  no  objection  at  all,  neither  could  you  possibly  have 
any  yourself,  to  the  garret,  as  a  place  in  which  you  might  be  die*, 
posed  of  with  great  felicity  of  accommodation. 

I  thank  you  much  for  your  services  in  the  transcribing  way,  and 
■would  by  no  means  have  you  despair  of  an  opportunity  to  ser^  cr 
me  in  the  same  way  yet  again.  Write  to  me  soon,  and  tell  me 
when  I  shall  see  you. 

I  have  not  said  the  half  that  I  have  to  say ;  but  breakfast  is  at 
hand,  which  always  terminates  my  epistles. 

What  have  you  done  with  your  poem?  The  trimming  that  it 
procured  you  here  has  not,  I  hope,  pu;  you  out  of  conceit  with  it 
entirely ;  you  are  more  than  equal  to  the  alteration  that  it  needs* 
Only  remember,  that  in  writing,  perspicuity  is  always  more  thaa 
half  the  battle.  The  want  of  it  is  the  ruin  of  more  than  half  the 
poetry  that  is  published.  A  meaning  that  does  not  stare  you  in 
the  face  is  as  bad  as  no  meaning,  because  nobody  will  take  the 
pains  to  poke  for  it.  So  now  adieu  for  the  present.  Beware  of 
killing  yourself  with  problems,  for  if  you  do  you  will  never  live 
to  be  another  Sir  Isaac. 

Mrs.  Unwin's  affectionate  remembrances  attend  you ;  Lady 
Hesketh  is  much  dis])r)sed  to  love  you;  perhaps  most  who  know 
you  have  some  little  tendency  the  same  wav. 

w.  c. 


Bd 


202  LIFE  OF  COVVPER. 


LETTER  CXXVL 

To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  March  8,  1790* 
My  dearest  Cousin, 

I  thank  thee  much,  and  oft,  for  nego-- 
dating  so  well  this  poetical  concern  with  Mrs. ,  and  for  send- 
ing me  her  opinion  in  her  own  hand.  I  should  be  unreasonable 
indeed,  not  to  be  highly  gratified  by  it ;  and  I  like  it  the  better 
for  being  modestly  expressed.  It  is,  as  you  know,  and  it  shall 
be  some  months  longer,  my  daily  business  to  polish  and  improve 
what  is  done,  that,  when  the  whole  shall  appear,  she  may  find 
her  expectations  answered.  I  am  glad  also  that  thou  didst  send 
her  the  sixteenth  Odyssey,  though,  as  I  said  before,  I  know  not  at 
all,  at  present,  whereof  it  is  made ;  but  I  am  sure  that  thou  wouldst 
not  have  sent  it,  hadst  thou  not  conceived  a  good  opinion  of  it  thy- 
self, and  thought  that  it  would  do  me  credit.  It  was  very  kind 
in  thee  to  sacrifice  to  this  Minerva  on  my  account. 

For  my  sentiments  on  the  subject  of  the  test  act,  I  cannot  do 
better  than  refer  thee  to  my  poem,  entitled  and  called  "  Expostu- 
lation." I  have  there  expressed  myself  not  much  in  its  favour, 
considering  it  in  a  religious  view ;  and  in  a  political  one  I  like  it 
not  a  jot  the  better.  I  am  neither  tory  nor  high  churchman,  but 
an  old  whig,  as  my  father  was  before  me,  and  an  enemy,  conse-- 
quently,  to  all  tyrannical  impositions. 

Mrs.  Unwin  bids  me  return  thee  many  thanks  for  thy  inquiries 
so  kindly  made  concerning  her  health.  She  is  a  little  better  than 
of  late,  but  has  been  ill  continually  ever  since  last  November, 
Every  th'ng  that  could  try  patience  and  submission  she  has  had, 
and  her  submission  and  patience  have  answered  in  the  trialj 
though  mine,  on  her  account,  have  often  failed  sadly. 

I  have  a  letter  from  Johnson,  who  tells  me  that  he  has  sent  his 
transcript  to  you,  begging,  at  the  same  time,  more  copy.  Let 
him  have  it  by  all  means  ;  he  is  an  industrious  youth,  and  I  love 
him  dearly.  I  told  him  that  you  are  disposed  to  love  him  a  little. 
A  new  poem  is  born  on  the  receipt  of  my  mother's  picture.  Thou 
Shalt  have  it.  W.  C. 


LETTER  CXXVII. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

The  Lodge,  March  11,  1790. 

I  was  glad  to  hear  from  you,  for  a  line 

from  you  gives  me  always  much  pleasure,  but  was  not  much  glad- 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  205 

flened  by  the  contents  of  your  letter.  The  state  of  your  healtli, 
which  I  have  learned  more  accurately,  perhaps,  from  my  cousin, 
except  in  this  last  instance,  than  from  yourself,  has  rather  alarmed 
me ;  and  even  she  has  collected  her  information  upon  that  subject 
more  from  your  looks  than  from  your  own  acknowled^men.ts.  To 
complain  much,  and  often,  of  our  indispositions,  does  not  always 
insure  the  pity  of  the  hearer,  perhaps  sometimes  forfeits  it ;  but 
to  dissemble  them  altogether,  or,  at  least,  to  suppress  the  worst,  is 
attended,  ultimately,  with  an  inconvenience  greater  still;  the  se- 
cret will  out  at  last,  and  our  friends,  unprepared  to  receive  it,  arc 
doubly  distressed  about  us.  In  saying  this  I  squint  a  little  at  Mrs. 
Unwin,  who  will  read  it:  it  is  with  her,  as  with  you,  the  only 
subject  on  which  she  practises  any  dissimulation  at  all :  tlic  con- 
sequence is,  that  when  she  is  much  indisposed  I  never  believe 
myself  in  possession  of  the  whole  truth,  live  in  constant  expecta- 
tion of  hearing  something  worse,  and,  at  the  long  run,  am  seldom 
disappointed.  It  seems,  therefore,  as  on  all  other  occasions,  so 
even  in  this,  the  better  course,  on  the  whole,  to  appear  what  we 
are,  not  to  lay  the  fears  of  our  friends  asleep  by  cheerful  looks 
■which  do  not  properly  belong  to  us,  or  by  letters  written  as  if  we 
were  well,  when,  in  fact,  we  are  very  much  otherwise.  On  con- 
dition, however,  that  you  act  differently  toward  me  for  the  future, 
I  will  pardon  the  past,  and  she  may  gather,  from  my  clemency 
shown  to  you,  some  hopes,  on  the  same  conditions,  of  similar  cle* 
mency  to  herself.  W«  C, 


LETTER  CXXVIII. 
To  Mrs.  THROCKMORTON. 

The  Lodge^  March  21,  1790. 
My  dearest  Madam, 

I  shn.ll  only  observe,  on  the  subject  of 
your  absence,  tliat  you  have  stretched  it  since  you  went,  and  have 
made  it  a  week  longer.  Weston  is  sadly  wn^^f/ without  you;  and 
here  are  two  of  us  who  will  be  heartily  glad  to  see  you  again.  I 
believe  you  are  happier  at  home  than  any  where,  which  is  a  com- 
fortable belief  to  your  neighbours,  because  it  affords  assurance 
that,  since  you  are  neither  likely  to  ramble  for  pleasiu'c,  nor  to 
meet  with  any  avocations  of  business,  while  W'cston  shall  conti- 
nue to  be  your  liome,  it  will  not  often  want  you. 

The  two  first  books  of  my  Iliad  have  been  subniiitcd  to  the  in- 
spection and  scrutiny  of  a  great  critic  of  your  sc::,  at  the  instance 
of  my  cousin,  as  you  may  suppose.  The  lady  is  mistress  of  more 
tpngues  than  a  few,  (it  is  to  be  hoped  she  is  single)  and  particu- 


204  I.IFE  OF  COWPER. 

larly  she  Is  mistress  of  the  Greek.  She  returned  them  with  ex* 
pressions  that,  if  any  thing  could  make  a  poet  prcuoer  tlian  all 
poets  naturally  are,  would  have  made  me  so.  I  tell  you  this  be- 
cause I  know  that  you  all  interest  yourselves  in  the  success  of  the 
said  Iliad. 

My  periwig  is  arrived,  and  is  the  very  perfection  of  all  peri- 
wigs, having  only  one  ff.ult,  which  is,  that  my  head  will  cniy  go 
into  the  first  half  of  it,  the  other  half,  or  the  upper  part  of  it, 
continuing  still  unoccupied.  My  artist  in  this  way  at  Olney  has, 
however,  undertaken  to  make  the  whole  of  it  tenantable  ;  and 
then  I  shall  be  twenty  years  younger  than  you  have  ever  seen 
me. 

I  heard  of  your  birth-day  very  early  in  the  morning :  the  news 
came  from  the  steeple.  W.  C, 

LETTER  CXXTX. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  March  22,  1790. 
I  rejoice,  my  dearest  ccusin,  that  mvMFS. 
have  roamed  the  earth  so  successfully,  and  have  met  with  no  dis- 
aster. The  single  book  excepted  that  went  to  the  bottcm  of  the 
Thames,  and  rose  again,  they  have  been  fortunate  without  excep- 
tion. I  am  not  superstitious,  but  have,  nevertheless,  as  good  a 
right  to  believe  that  adventure  an  omen,  and  a  favourable  one,  as 
Swift  had  to  interpret  as  he  did  the  less  of  a  fine  fish,  which  he 
had  no  sooner  laid  en  the  bank  than  it  fiounced  into  the  water 
again.  This,  he  tells  us  himself,  he  always  considered  as  a  type 
cf  his  future  disappointments;  and  why  may  I  not  as  well  cons-ider 
the  marvellous  recovery  of  my  lost  book  from  the  bottcm  of  the 
Thames  as  typical  of  its  future  prosperity?  To  say  the  truth,  I 
have  no  fears  now  about  the  success  of  my  translation,  though  in 
time  past  I  have  had  many.  I  knew  there  was  a  stjle  somewhere, 
could  I  but  find  it,  in  which  Homer  ought  to  be  rendered,  and 
which  alone  would  suit  him.  Long  time  I  blundered  about  it, 
ere  I  could  attain  to  any  decided  judgment  on  the  matter.  At 
first  I  was  betrayed,  by  a  desire  of  accommodating  my  language  to 
the  simplicity  of  his,  into  much  of  the  quaintness  that  belonged  to 
our  writers  of  tlie  fifteenth  century.  In  the  course  of  many  re- 
visals  I  have  delivered  myself  from  this  evil,  I  believe,  entirely ; 
but  I  have  done  it  slowly,  and  as  a  man  separates  himself  from  his 
mistress  when  he  is  going  to  marry.  I  had  so  strong  a  predilection 
in  favour  of  this  style  at  first,  that  I  was  crazed  to  find  that  others 
•were  not  so  much  enamoured  with  it  as  myself.    At  every  passage 


LIFE  OF  COWTER.  20> 

of  that  sort  which  I  obliterated  I  groaned  Ijittevly,  and  said  to  my- 
self, I  am  spoiling  my  work  to  please  those  who  have  no  taste  for 
the  simple  graces  of  antiquity.  But  in  measure,  as  I  adopted  a 
more  modern  phraseology,  I  became  a  convert  to  their  opinion ; 
and  in  the  last  rcvisal,  which  I  am  now  making,  am  not  bcnsii)ie 
of  having  spared  a  single  expression  of  the  obsolete  kind.  I  see 
my  woi'k  so  much  improved  by  this  alteration,  that  I  am  filled  with 
•wonder  at  my  own  backwardness  to  assent  to  the  necessity  of  it ; 
and  the  more,  when  I  consider  that  Milton,  with  whose  manner 
I  account  myself  intimately  acquainted,  is  never  quaint,  never 
twangs  through  the  nose,  but  is  every  where  grand  and  elegant, 
without  resorting  to  musty  antiquity  for  his  beauties.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  took  a  long  stride  forward,  left  the  language  of  his  own 
day  far  Ijehind  him,  and  anticipated  the  expressions  of  a  century 
yet  to  come. 

I  have  now,  as  I  said,  no  longer  any  doubt  of  the  event,  but  I 
"will  give  thee  a  shilling  if  thou  wilt  tell  me  what  I  shall  say  in  niy 
preface.  It  is  an  affair  of  much  delicacy,  and  I  have  as  many  opi- 
nions about  it  as  there  are  whims  in  a  weather-cock. 

Send  my  MSS.  and  thine  when  thou  wilt.  In  a  day  or  two  I 
shall  enter  on  the  last  Iliad.  When  I  have  finished  it  I  shall  give 
the  Odyssey  one  more  reading,  and  shall,  therefore,  shortly  have 
occasion  for  the  copy  in  thy  possession ;  but  you  see  that  there  is  no 
need  to  hurry. 

I  leave  the  little  space  for  Mrs.  Unwin's  use,  who  means,  I  bcr 
lieve,  to  occupy  it,  and  am  evermore  thine  most  truly. 

\^'.  C. 

Postscript  in  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Unwin. 

You  cannot  imagine  how  much  your  ladyship  would  oblige  your 
\mworthv  servant,  if  you  would  be  so  good  to  let  me  know  in  what 
point  I  differ  from  you.  All  that  at  present  I  can  say  is,  tliat  I  will 
readily  sacrifice  my  own  opinion,  unless  I  can  give  you  a  substan- 
tial reason  for  adhering  to  it. 


LETTER  CXXX. 
To  JOHN  JOHNSON,  Esquire. 

JVeston,  March  2.1,  1790. 
Vonr  MSS.  arrived  safe  in  New  Nirfolk 
Street,  and  lam  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  labours.  Wore  you 
now  at  Weston  I  could  furnish  you  with  em])loymcnt  for  some 
weeks,  and  shall  perhaps  be  equally  able  to  do  it  in  summer,  fori 
have  lost  my  best  amanuensis  in  this  place,  Mr.  George  Throck- 
morton, who  is  gone  to  Bath. 


206  LIFE  OF  COWTER. 

You  are  a  man  to  be  envied,  who  have  never  read  the  Odyssey, 
which  is  one  of  the  most  amusing  story-books  in  the  world.  There 
is  also  much  of  the  finest  poetry  in  the  world  to  be  found  in  it, 
notwithstanding  all  that  Longinus  has  insinuated  to  the  contrary. 
His  comparison  of  the  Hiad  and  Odyssey  to  the  meridian,  and  to 
the  declining  sun,  is  pretty,  but,  I  am  persuaded,  not  just.  The 
prettiness  of  it  seduced  him;  he  was  otherwise  too  judicious  a 
reader  of  Homer  to  have  made  it.  I  can  find  in  the  latter  no  symp- 
toms of  impaired  ability  ;  none  of  the  effects  of  age :  on  the  con- 
trary, it  seems  to  me  a  certainty,  that  Homer,  had  he  written  the 
Odyssey  in  his  youth,  could  not  have  written  it  better ;  and  if  the 
Iliad  in  his  old  age,  that  he  would  have  written  it  just  as  well.  A 
critic  would  tell  me,  that  mstead  of  nvritten  I  should  have  said  com- 
posed. Very  likely — but  I  am  not  writing  to  one  of  that  snarling 
generation. 

My  boy,  I  long  to  see  thee  again.  It  has  happened  some  way 
or  other,  that  Mrs.  Unwin  and  I  have  conceived  a  great  affection 
for  thee.  That  I  should,  is  the  less  to  be  wondered  at,  because 
thou  art  a  shred  of  my  own  mother ;  neither  is  the  wonder  great, 
that  she  should  fall  into  the  same  predicament ;  for  she  loves  every 
thing  that  I  love.  You  will  observe,  that  your  own  personal  right 
to  be  beloved  makes  no  part  of  the  consideration.  There  is  no- 
thing that  I  touch  with  so  much  tenderness  as  the  vanity  of  a  ycung 
man  ;  because  I  know  how  extremely  susceptible  he  is  of  impres- 
sions that  might  hurt  him  in  that  particular  part  of  his  composition. 
If  you  should  ever  prove  a  coxcomb,  from  which  character  you 
stand  just  now  at  a  greater  distance  than  any  young  man  I  know,  it 
shall  never  be  said  that  I  have  made  you  one;  no,  you  will  gain 
nothing  by  me  but  the  honour  of  being  much  valued  by  a  poor  poet, 
who  can  do  you  no  good  while  he  lives,  and  has  nothing  to  leave 
you  when  he  dies.  If  you  can  be  contented  to  be  dear  to  me  on 
these  conditions,  so  you  shall ;  but  other  terms,  more  advantageous 
than  these,  or  more  inviting,  none  have  I  to  propose. 

Farewell.  Puzzle  not  yourself  about  a  subject  when  you  write 
to  either  of  us  ;  every  thing  is  subject  enough  from  those  we  love, 

W.  C. 


LETTER  CXXXL 
To  JOHN  JOHNSON,  Esquire. 

Weston,  April  17,  1790. 

Your  letter,  that  now  lies  before  me,  is 

almost  three  \veeks  old,  and  therefore  of  full  age  to  receive  an 

answer,  which  it  shall  Imve  without  delaj',  if  the  interval  betwecp 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  207 

the  present  moment  and  that  of  breakfast  shcuM  prove  sufficient 
for  the  purpose. 

Yours  to  Mrs.  Unwin  was  received  yesterday,  for  which  she 
will  thank,  you  in  due  time.  I  have  also  seen,  and  have  now  in 
my  desk,  your  letter  to  Lady  Hesketh ;  she  sent  it  thinking  that 
it  would  divert  me ;  in  which  she  was  not  mistaken.  I  shall  tell 
her  when  I  write  to  her  next,  that  you  long  to  receive  a  line  from 
her.  Give  yourse'f  no  trouble  on  the  subject  of  the  politic  device 
you  saw  good  to  recur  to,  when  you  presented  me  with  your 
manuscript ;  it  was  an  innocent  deception,  at  least  it  could  harm 
nobody  save  yourself;  an  effect  which  it  did  not  fail  to  produce : 
and  since  the  punishment  followed  it  so  closely,  by  me  at  least  it 
may  very  well  be  forgiven.  You  ask,  how  I  can  tell  that  you  are 
not  addicted  to  practices  of  the  deceptive  kind  ?  And  certainly,  H 
the  little  time  that  I  have  had  to  study  you  were  alone  to  be  con- 
sidered the  question  would  not  be  unreasonable;  but,  in  general,  a 
man  who  reaches  my  years,  finds  that 

"  Long  experience  does  attain 

"  To  something  like  prophetic  strain." 

I  am  very  much  of  Lavater's  opinion,  and  persuaded  that  faces 
are  as  legible  as  books;  only  with  these  circumstances  to  recom- 
mend them  to  our  perusal,  that  they  are  read  in  much  less  time, 
and  are  much  less  likely  to  deceive  us.  Yours  gave  me  a  favour- 
able impression  of  you  the  moment  I  beheld  it;  and  though  I  shall 
not  tell  you  in  particular  what  I  saw  in  it,  for  reasons  mentioned  in 
my  last,  I  will  add,  that  I  have  observed  in  you  nothing  since  that 
has  not  confirmed  the  opinion  I  then  formed  in  your  favour.  lu 
fact,  I  cannot  recollect  that  my  skill  in  physiognomy  has  ever  de- 
ceived me,  and  I  should  add  more  on  this  subject  had  I  room. 

When  you  have  shut  up  your  mathematical  books,  you  must 
give  yourself  to  the  study  of  Greek;  not  merely  that  you  may  be 
able  to  i-ead  Homer,  and  the  other  Greek  Classics,  with  ease,  but 
the  Greek  Testament  and  the  Greek  Fathei"s  also.  Thus  quahfied, 
and  by  the  aid  of  your  fiddle  into  the  bargain,  together  with  some 
portion  of  the  grace  of  God  (without  which  nothing  can  be  done) 
to  enable  you  to  look  well  to  your  flock,  when  you  shall  get  one, 
you  will  be  well  set  up  for  a  parson.  In  which  character,  if  I 
live  to  see  you  in  it,  I  shall  expect  and  hope  that  you  will  make  a, 
very  difTerept  figure  from  most  of  your  fratei-nity. 

Ever  yours,  W,  C. 


30i  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

LETTER  CXXXII. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Aj[iriL  19,  1790* 
My  dearest  Coz. 

I  thank  thee  for  my  cousin  Johnson's  let- 
ter, ivhich  diverted  me.  I  had  one  from  him  lately,  in  which  he 
expressed  an  ardent  desire  of  a  line  from  you,  and  the  delight  he 
would  feel  on  receiving  it.  I  knov/  not  whether  you  will  have  the 
charity  to  satir^fy  his  longings,  but  mention  the  matter,  thinking  it 
possible  that  you  may.  A  letter  from  a  lady  to  a  youth  immersed 
in  mathematics  must  be  singularly  pleasant. 

I  am  finishing  Homer  backward,  having  begun  at  the  last  book, 
and  designing  to  persevere  in  that  crab-like  fashion  till  I  ar- 
rive at  the  first.  Tliis  may  remind  you,  perhaps,  of  a  certain 
poet's  prisoner  in  the  bastiie  (thank  Heaven !  in  the  bastile  now 
no  more)  counting  the  nails  in  the  door,  for  variety's  sake,  in  all 
directions.  I  find  so  little  to  do  in  the  last  re\  isal,  that  I  shall 
soon  reach  the  Odyssey,  and  soon  want  those  books  of  it  which  are 
in  thy  possession ;  but  the  two  first  of  the  Iliad,  which  are  also  in 
thy  possession,  much  sooner:  thou  mayest,  therefore,  send  them 
by  the  first  fair  opportunity.  I  am  in  high  spirits  on  this  subject, 
and  think  that  I  have  at  last  licked  the  clumsy  cub  into  a  shape 
that  will  secure  to  it  the  favourable  notice  of  the  public.  Let  not 
— —  retard  me,  and  I  shall  hope  to  get  it  out  next  winter. 

I  am  glad  that  thou  hast  sent  the  General  those  verses  on  my 
mother's  picture.  They  will  amuse  him ;  only  I  hope  that  he  will 
not  miss  my  mother-in-law,  and  think  that  she  ought  to  have  made 
a  third.  On  such  an  occasion  it  was  not  possible  to  mention  her 
with  any  propriety.  I  rejoice  at  the  General's  recovery;  may  it 
prove  a  perfect  one.  W.  C» 

LETTER  CXXXm. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Jijiril  30,  1790. 
To  my  eld  friend,  Dr.  Madan,  thou 
Gcuklst  not  have  spoken  better  than  thou  didst.  Tell  him,  I  be- 
seech ycu,  that  I  have  not  forgotten  him ;  tell  him  also,  that  to 
my  heart  and  home  he  will  be  alw^ays  welcome;  nor  he  only,  but 
all  that  are  his.  His  judgment  of  my  translation  gave  me  the 
highest  satisfaction,  because  I  know  him  to  be  a  rare  old  Gre- 
cian. 

The  General's  approlatien  of  my  picture  verses  gave  rae  also 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  50f 

much  pleasure.  I  wrote  them  not  without  tears ;  therefore  I  pre- 
sume it  may  Ije  that  they  are  felt  by  others.  Should  he  offer  me 
my  father's  picture,  I  shall  gladly  accept  it.  A  melancholy  plea- 
sure is  better  than  none,  nay,  verily,  better  than  most.  He  had 
a  sad  task  imposed  on  him ;  but  no  man  could  acquit  himself  of 
such  a  one  with  more  discretion  or  witli  more  tenderness.  The 
death  of  the  unfortunate  young  man  reminded  me  of  those  lines 
in  Lycidas ; 

"  It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark, 

"  Built  in  the  eclipse,  and  rigg'd  with  curses  dark, 

"  That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine!" 

How  beautiful!  W.  C. 


LETTER  CXXXIV. 
To  Mrs.  THROCKMORTON. 

The  Lodge^  May  10,  ir90. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Frog,*  you  have  by  this 
time,  1  presume,  heard  from  the  Doctor;  whom  I  desired  to  pre- 
sent to  you  our  best  affections,  and  to  tell  you  that  we  are  well. 
He  sent  an  urchin  (I  do  not  mean  a  hedge -hog,  commonly  called 
an  urchin  in  old  times,  but  a  boy,  commonly  so  called  at  present), 
expecting  that  he  would  find  you  at  Buckland's,  whither  he  sup- 
posed you  gone  on  Thursday.  He  sent  him  charged  with  divers 
articles,  and  among  others  with  letters,  or  at  least  with  a  letter  j 
which  I  mention,  that,  if  the  boy  should  be  lost,  together  with  his 
dispatches,  past  all  possibility  of  recovery,  you  may  yet  know  that 
the  Doctor  stands  acquitted  of  not  writing.  That  he  is  utterly 
lost  (that  is  to  say,  the  boy — for,  the  Doctor  being  the  last  ante- 
cedent, as  the  grammarians  say,  you  might  otherwise  suppose  that 
he  was  intended)  is  the  more  probable,  because  he  was  never  four 
miles  from  his  home  before,  having  only  travelled  at  the  side  of  a 
plough-team ;  ;uid  when  the  Doctor  gave  him  his  direction  to  Buck- 
land's,  he  asked,  very  naturally,  if  that  place  was  in  England. 
So,  what  has  become  of  him.  Heaven  knows. 

I  do  not  know  that  any  adventures  have  presented  themselves 
since  your  departure  worth  mentioning,  except  that  the  rabbit  that 
infested  your  wilderness  has  been  shot  for  devouring  your  carna- 
tions; and  that  I  myself  have  been  in  some  danger  of  being  de- 
iioured,  in  like  manner,  by  a  great  dog,  viz.  Pearson's.     But  I 

*  The  sponive  title  jeueially  bestowed  by  Cowper  on  Iiis  amiable  fiieuils  the  Tl-.rockinor- 

tOili. 

VOL.  I,  EC 


219  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

wrote  him  a  letter  on  Friday,  (I  mean  a  letter  to  Pearson,  not  to 
his  dog,  which  I  mention  to  prevent  mistakes — for  the  said  last 
antecedent  might  occasion  them  in  this  place  also)  informing  him, 
that  unless  he  tied  up  his  great  mastiff  in  the  day-time,  I  would 
send  him  a  worse  thing,  commonly  called  and  known  by  the  name 
of  an  attorne)-.  When  I  go  forth  to  ramble  in  the  fields,  I  do  not 
sally,  like  Don  Quixote,  with  a  purpose  of  encountering  monsters, 
if  any  such  can  be  found ;  but  am  a  peaceable,  poor  gentleman,  and 
a  poet,  Avho  means  nobody  any  harm,  the  fox-hunters  and  the  two 
universities  of  this  land  excepted. 

I  cannot  learn  from  any  creature  whether  the  turnpike  bill  is 
alive  or  dead :  so  ignorant  am  I,  and  by  such  ignoramuses  sur- 
rounded. But  if  I  know  little  else,  this  at  least  I  know,  that  I 
love  you  and  Mr.  Frog;  that  I  long  for  your  return,  and  that  I  am, 
with  Mi's.  Unwin's  best  affections,  ever  yours,  W.  C» 


LETTER  CXXXV. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 
My  dearest  Coz.  The  Lodge,  May  28,  1790. 

I  thank  tliee  for  the  offer  of  thy  best  ser- 
vices on  this  occasion,  but  Heaven  giuird  my  brows  from  the  wreath 
you  mention,  whatever  wreath  beside  may  hereafter  adorn  them  ! 
It  would  be  a  leaden  extinguisher,  clapped,  on  all  the  fire  of  my  ge- 
nius, and  I  should  never  more  produce  a  line  worth  reading.  To 
speak  seriously,  it  would  make  me  miserable ;  and  therefore  I  am 
sure  that  thou,  of  all  my  friends,  wouldst  least  wish  me  to  wear  it. 
Adieu,  ever  thine — in  Homer — hurry.  W.  C« 

LETTER  CXXXVL 

To  Lady  HESKETH. 

June  3,  1790; 
You  will  wonder  when  I  tell  you,  that  I, 
even  I,  am  considered  by  people,  who  live  at  a  great  distance,  as 
having  interest  and  influence  sufficient  to  procure  a  place  at  court 
for  those  who  may  happen  to  want  one.  I  have,  accordingly,  beea 
applied  to  within  these  few  days,  by  a  Welchman,  with  a  wife  and 
many  children,  to  get  him  made  Poet-laureat  as  fast  as  possible. 
If  thou  wouldst  wish  to  make  the  world  merry  twice  a  yeaE,:4hou 
canst  not  do  better  than  procure  the  office  for  him.  I  will  pro- 
mise thee,  that  he  shall  afford  thee  a  hearty  laugh  \n  return  every 
e\ery  birth-day,  and  every  new-year.    He  is  an  honest  nran. 

Adieu.  W.  C» 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  ^1 

LETTER  CXXXVII. 
To  JOHN  JOHNSON,  Esquire. 

Weston,  June  7,  1790. 

My  deap.  John, 

You  know  my  engagements,  and  are,  con- 
sequently, able  to  account  for  my  silence:  I  will  not,  therefore, 
waste  time  and  paper  in  mentioning  them,  but  will  only  say,  that, 
added  to  tliose  with  which  you  are  acquainted,  I  have  had  other 
hinderances,  such  as  business,  and  a  disorder  of  my  spirits,  to 
which  I  have  been  all  my  hfe  subject.  At  present  I  am,  thank 
God,  perfectly  well,  both  in  mind  and  body.  Of  you  I  am  always 
mindful,  whether  I  write  or  not,  and  very  desirous  to  see  you.  You 
will  remember,  I  hope,  that  you  are  under  engagements  to  us,  and 
as  soon  as  your  Norfolk  friends  can  spare  you,  will  fulfil  them. 
Give  us  all  the  time  you  can,  and  all  that  they  can  spare  to  us. 

You  never  pleased  me  more  than  when  you  told  me  you  had 
abandoned  your  mathematical  pursuits.  It  grieved  me  to  think 
that  you  were  wasting  your  time  merely  to  gain  a  little  Cambridge 
fame  not  worth  your  having.  I  cannot  be  contented  that  your  re- 
nown should  thrive  no  where  but  on  the  banks  of  the  Cam.  Con- 
ceive a  nobler  ambition,  and  never  let  your  honour  be  circum- 
scribed by  the  paltry  dimensions  of  an  university.  It  is  well  that 
you  have  alread\-,  as  you  observe,  acquired  sufficient  information 
in  that  science  to  enalile  you  to  pass  creditably  such  examinations 
as,  I  suppose,  you  must  hereafter  undergo.  Keep  what  you  have 
gotten,  and  be  content.     More  is  needless. 

You  could  not  api)ly  to  a  worse  than  I  am  to  ad\'ise  you  con- 
cerning your  studies.  I  was  never  a  regular  student  myself;  but 
lost  the  most  valuable  years  of  my  life  in  an  attorney's  office,  and 
in  the  Temple.  I  will  not,  therefore,  give  myself  airs,  and  affect 
to  know  what  I  know  not.  The  affair  is  of  great  importance  to 
you,  and  you  should  be  directed  in  it  by  a  wiser  than  I.  To  speak, 
however,  in  very  general  terms  on  the  subject,  it  seems  to  me  that 
your  chief  concern  is  with  history,  natural  philosophy,  logic,  and 
divinity.  As  to  metaphysics,  I  know  little  about  them,  Init  the 
very  little  that  I  do  know  has  not  taught  me  to  admire  them.  Life 
is  too  short  to  affi^rd  time  even  for  serious  trifles:  pursue  what  you 
know  to  be  attainable,  make  truth  your  object,  and  \  our  studies  will 
make  you  a  wise  man.  Let  your  divinity,  if  I  may  advise,  be  the 
divinity  of  the  glorious  reformation :  I  mean  in  contradistinction  to 
Arminianism,  and  all  the  isms  that  were  ever  broached  in  this 
world  of  error  and  ignorance. 

The  divinity  of  the  reformation  is  called  Calvinism,  but  injuri- 


Ifel  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

ously;  it  has  been  that  of  the  church  of  Christ  in  all  ages  ;  it  i$ 
the  divinity  of  St.  Paul,  and  of  St.  Paul's  master,  who  met  him  in 
his  way  to  Damascus. 

I  have  written  in  great  haste,  that  I  might  finish,  if  possible,  be- 
fore breakfast.  Adieu  ;  let  us  see  you  soon ;  the  sooner  the  better. 
Give  my  love  to  the  silent  lady,_  the  Rose,  and  all  my  friends 
iaroimdyou.  "  W.  C. 


LETTER  CXXXVm. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

The  Lodge^  June  8,  1790- 
My  dear  Friend, 

Among  the  many  who  love  and  esteem 
you,  there  is  none  who  rejoices  more  in  your  felicity  than  myself: 
far  from  blaming,  I  commend  ycu  much  for  connecting  yourself, 
j'oung  as  you  are,  with  a  well-chosen  companion  for  life.  Enter- 
ing on  the  state  with  uncontaminated  morals,  you  have  the  best 
possible  prospect  of  happiness,  and  will  be  secure  against  a  thou- 
sand and  ten  thousand  temptations  to  which,  at  an  early  period  of 
life,  in  such  a  Babylon  as  you  must  necessarily  inhabit,  you  would 
otherwise  have  been  exposed.  I  see  it  too  in  the  light  you  do,  as 
likely  to  be  advantageous  to  you  in  your  profession.  Men  of  busi- 
ness have  a  better  opinion  of  a  candidate  for  employment  who  is 
married,  because  he  has  given  bond  to  the  world,  as  you  observe, 
and  to  himself,  for  diligence,  industry,  and  attention.  It  is  alto- 
gether, therefore,  a  subject  of  much  congratulation,  and  mine  (to 
which  I  add  Mrs.  Unwin's)  is  very  sincere.  Samson,  at  his 
marriage,  proposed  a  riddle  to  the  Philistines.  I  am  no  Samson, 
neither  ai*e  you  a  Philistine,  yet  expound  to  me  the  following,  if 
3'ou  can : 

What  are  they  wMch  statid  at  a  distance  from  each  other.)  and 
meet  nvithout  ever  moving? 

Should  you  be  so  fortunate  as  to  guess  it,  jou  may  propose  it  to 
the  company  when  j^ou  celebrate  your  nuptials,  and  if  you  can  win 
thirty  changes  of  raiment  by  it,  as  Samson  did  by  his,  let  me  tell 
you  they  will  be  no  contemptible  acquisition  to  a  young  beginner. 

You  will  not,  I  hope,  forget  your  way  to  Weston  in  consequence 
flf  your  marriage,  where  you  and  yours  will  be  always  welcome. 

W.  C, 


LIFE  OF  CO^^TER.  ^^ 


LETTER  CXXXIX. 
To  Mrs.  BODHAM. 

Weston,  June  29,  3790. 

My  df.arest  Cousin, 

It  is  true  tliat  I  did  sometimes  complain 
to  Mrs.  Unwin  of  your  long  silence,  but  it  is  likewise  true  that  I 
made  many  excuses  for  you  in  my  own  mind,  and  did  not  feel  my- 
self at  all  inclined  to  be  angry,  nor  even  much  to  wonder.  Thei-e 
is  an  aukwardness  and  a  difficulty  in  writing  to  those  whom  dis- 
tance and  length  of  time  have  made  in  a  manner  new  to  us,  that 
naturally  give  us  a  check  when  we  would  otherwise  be  glad  to  ad- 
dress them.  But  a  time,  I  hope,  is  near  at  hand,  when  you  and  I 
shall  be  eflFectually  delivered  from  all  such  constraints,  and  cor- 
respond as  fluently  as  if  our  intercourse  had  suffered  much  less 
interruption. 

You  must  not  suppose,  my  dear,  that  though  I  may  be  said  to 
Kave  lived  many  years  with  a  pen  in  my  hand,  I  am  myself  al- 
together at  my  ease  on  this  tremendous  occasion.  Imagine,  rather, 
and  you  will  come  nearer  to  the  truth,  that,  when  I  placed  this 
sheet  before  me,  I  asked  myself  more  than  once,  "  How  shall  I 
fill  it?"  One  subject,  indeed,  presents  itself,  the  pleasant  prospect 
that  opens  upon  me  of  our  coming  once  m.ore  together ;  but  that 
once  exhausted,  with  what  shall  I  proceed  ?  Thus  I  questioned 
myself;  but  finding  neither  end  nor  profit  of  such  questions,  I 
bravely  resolved  to  dismiss  them  all  at  once,  and  to  engage  in  the 
great  enterprize  of  a  letter  to  my  quondam  Rose  at  a  venture. — 
There  is  great  truth  in  a  rant  of  Nat.  Lee's,  or  of  Dryden's,  I 
know  not  which,  who  makes  an  enamoured  youth  say  to  his  mis- 
tress, 

*'  And  nonsense  shall  be  eloquence  in  love." 

For  certain  it  is,  that  they  who  truly  love  one  another  arc  not  \cry 
nice  examiners  of  each  other's  style  or  matter  ;  if  an  epistle  comes, 
it  is  always  welcome,  though  it  be,  perhaps,  neither  so  wise  nor  so 
witty  as  one  might  have  wished  to  make  it. 

And  now,  my  cousin,  let  me  tell  thee  how  much  I  feel  myself 
obliged  to  Mr.  Bodharp  for  the  readiness  he  expresses  to  accept 
my  invitation.  Assure  him  that,  stranger  as  he  is  to  me  at  present, 
and  natural  as  the  dread  of  strangers  has  ever  been  to  me,  I  shall 
yet  receive  him  witli  open  arms,  liecansc  he  is  your  husband,  and 
loves  you  dearly.  Tiiat  consideration  alone  will  endear  him  to  me, 
and  I  dare  say  that  I  shall  not  find  it  his  only  recommend  itiou  to 


2U  LIFE  OF  COWPER; 

my  best  affections.  May  the  health  of  his  relation  (his  mother  I 
Suppose)  be  soon  restored,  and  long  continued,  and  may  nothing 
melancholy,  of  what  kind  soever,  interfere  to  prevent  our  joyful 
meeting.  Between  the  present  moment  and  September,  our  house 
is  clear  for  your  reception,  and  you  have  nothing  to  do  but  to 
give  us  a  day  or  two's  notice  of  your  coming.  In  September  we 
expect  Lady  Hesketh,  and  I  only  regret  that  our  house  is  not  large 
enough  to  hold  all  together,  for  were  it  possible  that  you  could 
meet,  you  would  love  each  other. 

Mrs.  Unwin  bids  me  offer  you  her  best  love.  She  is  never  well, 
but  always  patient,  and  always  cheerful,  and  feels  beforehand,  that 
she  shall  be  loth  to  part  with  you. 

My  love  to  all  the  dear  Donnes  of  every  name.  Write  soon,  na 
matter  about  what.  V^".  C. 


LETTER  CXL. 

To  Lady  HESKETH. 

July  7,  ir9Q» 
Listead  of  beginning  Avitli  the  saffi'on- 
vested  morning  to  which  Homer  invites  me,  on  a  morning  that  hasi 
no  saffron  vest  to  boast,  I  shall  begin  with  you. 

It  is  irksome  to  us  both  to  wait  so  long  as  we  must  for  you,  but 
we  are  willing  to  hope  that,  by  a  longer  stay,  you  will  make  us 
amends  for  all  this  tedious  procrastination. 

Mrs.  Unwin  has  made  known  her  whole  case  to  Mr.  GregsoU) 
Avhose  opinion  of  it  has  been  very  consolatoiy  to  me.  He  says,  in- 
tleed,  it  is  a  case  perfectly  out  of  the  reach  of  all  physical  aid,  but 
at  the  same  time  not  at  all  dangerous.  Constant  pain  is  a  sad 
grievance,  whatever  part  is  affected,  and  she  is  hardly  ever  free 
from  an  aching  head,  as  well  as  an  uneasy  side  ;  but  patience  is  an 
anodyne  of  God's  own  preparation,  and  of  that  he  gives  her  largely. 

The  French,  who,  like  all  lively  folks,  are  extreme  in  every 
thing,  are  such  in  tlieir  zeal  for  freedom,  and  if  it  were  possible  to 
make  so  noble  a  cause  ridiculous,  their  manner  of  promoting  it 
could  not  fail  to  do  so.  Princes  and  peers  reduced  to  plain  gentle- 
manship,  and  gentles  reduced  to ,  a  le^-el  with  their  own  lacqueys, 
are  excesses  of  which  they  will  repent  hereafter.  Difference  of 
rank  and  subordination  are,  I  I)clieve,  of  God's  appointment,  and, 
consequeutly,  essential  to  the  well-being  of  society:  but  what  we 
mean  by  fanaticism  in  religion  is  exactly  that  which  animates  their 
politics,  and  unless  time  should  sober  them,  they  will,  after  all,  be 
an  unhappy  people.  Pei'haps  it  deserves  not  much  to  be  wondered 
at,  that,  at  tlieir  first  escape  from  tyrannic  shackles,  they  should 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  21S 

act  extravagantly,  and  treat  their  kings  as  they  have  sometimes 
treated  tlieir  idols.  To  these,  however,  they  are  reconciled  in  due 
time  again,  but  their  respect  for  monarchy  is  at  an  end.  Thejr 
want  nothing  now  but  a  little  English  sobi'iety,  and  that  they  want 
extremely.  I  heartily  wish  them  some  wit  in  their  anger,  for  it 
were  great  pity  that  so  many  millions  should  be  miserable  for  wani 
of  it.  W.  C. 


LETTER  CXLL 
To  JOHN  JOHNSON,  Esquire. 

Weston,  July  8,  \790, 
My  dear  Johnny, 

You  do  well  to  perfect  yourself  on  the 
violin.  Only  beware  that  an  amusement  so  very  bewitching  as 
music,  especially  when  we  produce  it  ourselves,  do  not  steal  Ironi 
you  all  those  hours  that  should  be  given  to  study,  I  can  be  well 
content  that  it  should  serve  you  as  a  refreshment  after  severer  ex- 
ercises, but  not  that  it  should  engross  you  wholly.  Your  own  good 
sense  will  most  probably  dictate  to  you  this  pi-ecaution,  and  I  might 
have  spared  you  tlie  trouble  of  it,  but  I  have  a  degree  of  zeal  for 
your  proficiency  in  more  important  pursuits,  that  would  not  suffer 
me  to  suppress  it. 

Having  delivered  my  conscience  by  giving  you  this  sage  admo- 
nition, I  will  convince  you  that  I  am  a  censor  not  over  and  above 
severe,  by  acknowledging,  in  the  next  place,  that  I  have  known  very 
good  performers  on  the  violin,  very  learned  also  ;  and  my  cousin, 
Dr.  Spencer  Madan,  is  an  instance. 

I  am  delighted  that  you  have  engaged  your  sister  to  visit  us ; 
for  I  say  to  myself,  if  John  be  amiable,  what  must  Catharine  be  ? 
For  we  males,  be  we  angelic  as  we  may,  are  always  surpassed  by 
the  ladies.  But  know  this,  that  I  shall  not  be  in  love  with  either 
of  you,  if  you  stay  with  us  only  a  few  days,  for  you  talk  of  a  week 
or  so. — ^Correct  this  erratum,  I  beseech  you,  and  convince  us  by  a 
much  longer  continuance  here  that  it  was  one. 

W.  C. 

Mrs.  Unwin  has  never  been  well  since  you  saw  her.  You  are 
not  passionately  fond  of  letter-writing,  I  perceive,  who  have  drop- 
ped a  lady;  but  you  will  be  a  loser  by  the  bargain  ;  for  one  letter 
of  hers,  in  point  of  real  utility  and  sterling  value,  is  worth  twenty 
of  mine,  and  you  will  never  have  anotlier  from  her  till  you  ha\ c 
■earned  it. 


2l4i  LifE  OF  COWPEtt* 


LETTER  CXLII. 
To  JOHN  JOHNSON,  Esquire. 

Weston,  July  31,  1790, 
You  have  by  this  time,  I  presume,  an- 
swered Lady  Hesketh's  letter :  if  not,  answer  it  without  delay ; 
iind  this  injunction  I  give  you,  judging  that  it  may  not  be  entirely 
unnecessary  ;  for  though  I  have  seen  you  but  once,  and  only  for 
two  or  three  days,  I  have  found  out  that  you  are  a  scatter-brain. 
I  made  the  discovery,  perhaps,  the  sooner,  because  in  this  you  very 
much  resemble  myself,  who,  in  the  course  of  my  life,  have, 
through  mere  carelessness  and  inattention,  lost  many  advantages. 
An  insuperable  shyness  has  also  deprived  me  of  many.  And  here 
again  there  is  a  resemblance  between  us.  You  will  do  well  to 
guard  against  both,  for  of  both,  I  believe,  you  have  a  consider- 
able share  as  well  as  myself. 

We  long  to  see  you  again,  and  are  only  concerned  at  the  short 
^tay  you  propose  to  make  with  us.  If  time  should  seem  to  you  as 
short  at  Weston  as  it  seems  to  us,  yovir  visit  here  will  be  gone 
"  as  a  dream  when  one  awaketh,  or  as  a  watch  in  the  night." 

It  is  a  life  of  dreams,  but  the  pleasantest  one  naturally  wishes 
longest, 

I  shall  find  employment  for  you,  having  made  already  some 
part  of  the  fair  copy  of  the  Odyssey  a  foul  one.  I  am  revising  it 
for  the  last  time,  and  spare  nothing  that  I  can  mend.  The  Iliad  is 
finished. 

If  you  have  Donne's  Poems,  bring  them  with  you,  for  I  have 
not  seen  them  many  years,  and  should  like  to  look  them  over. 

You  may  treat  us,  too,  if  you  please,  with  a  little  of  your  music, 
for  I  seldom  hear  any,  and  delight  much  in  it.  You  need  not  fear 
a  rival,  for  we  have  but  two  fiddles  in  the  neighbourhood,  one  £V 
gardener's,  the  other  a  taylor's — terrible  performers  both  ! 

W.  C. 


LETTER  CXLIIL 
To  Mrs.  BODHAM. 

Weston,  Sept.  9,  1790. 
My  dear  Cousin, 

I  am  truly  sorry  to  be  forced,  after  all, 
to  resii^i  the  hope  of  seeing  you  and  Mr.  Bodham  at  Weston  this 
year;  the  next  may  possibly  be  more  propitious,  and  I  heartily 
wish  it  mav.  Poor  Catharine's  unseasonable  indisposition  has  also 
(ssostus  a  disappointment  wliich  we  much  x^egret ;  an4  were  it  aot 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  217 

that  Johnny  has  made  shift  to  i-each  us,  we  should  think  ourselves 
completely  unfortunate.  But  him  we  have,  and  him  we  will  hold 
as  long  as  we  can,  so  expect  not  very  soon  to  see  him  in  Norfolk. 
He  is  so  harmless,  cheerful,  gentle,  and  good-tempered,  and  I 
am  so  entirely  at  my  ease  with  him,  that  I  cannot  surrender  him 
without  a  needs  must,  even  to  those  who  have  a  superior  claim 
upon  him.  He  left  us  yesterday  morning,  and  whither  do  you 
think  he  has  gone,  and  on  what  errand  ?  Gone,  as  sure  as  you 
are  ali\  e,  to  London,  and  to  convey  my  Homer  to  the  bookseller's. 
But  he  will  return  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  I  mean  to  part 
with  him  no  more  till  necessity  shall  force  us  asunder.  Suspect 
me  not,  my  cousin,  of  being  such  a  monster  as  to  have  imposed 
this  task  myself  on  your  kind  nephew,  or  even  to  have  thought  of 
doing  it.  It  happened  that,  one  day,  as  we  chatted  by  the  fire-side, 
I  expressed  a  wish  that  I  could  hear  of  some  trusty  body  going  to 
London,  to  whose  care  I  might  consign  my  voluminous  labours, 
the  work  of  five  years :  for  I  purpose  never  to  visit  that  city  again 
myself,  and  should  have  been  uneasy  to  have  left  a  charge  of  so 
much  importance  to  me,  altogether  to  the  care  of  a  stage-coach- 
man. Johnny  had  no  sooner  heard  my  wish,  than  offering  himself 
to  the  service,  he  fulfilled  it;  and  his  offer  was  made  in  such  terms, 
and  accompanied  with  a  countenance  and  manner  expressive  of 
so  much  alacrity,  that,  unreasonable  as  I  thought  it  at  first  to  give 
him  so  much  trouble,  I  soon  found  that  I  should  mortify  him  by  a 
refusal.  He  is  gone,  therefore,  with  a  box  full  of  poetry,  of 
which  I  think  nobody  will  plunder  him.  He  has  only  to  say  what 
it  is,  and  there  is  no  commodity,  I  think,  a  frce-booter  would 
covet  less.  W.  C. 


LETTER  CXLIV. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

T/ie  Lodge,  Se/U.  13,  1790. 
Your  letter  was  paiticularly  welcome  to 
me,  not  only  l^ccause  it  came  after  a  long  silence,  but  because  it 
brought  me  good  news — news  of  your  marriage,  and,  consequently, 
I  trust,  of  your  happiness.  May  that  happiness  be  durable  as 
jour  lives,  and  may  you  be  the  fellces  ter  et  canjilius  of  whom 
Horace  sings  so  sweetly  !  This  is  my  sincere  wish,  and,  though 
expressed  iu  prose,  shall  serve  as  your  epithalamium.  You  com- 
fort me  when  you  say  that  your  marriage  will  not  deprive  us  of 
the  sight  of  you  hereafter.  If  you  do  not  wish  that  I  should  re- 
gret your  union,  you  must  make  that  assurance  good  as  often  as 
you  have  opportunity. 

VOL.  I.  F  f 


218  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

After  perpetual  versification  during  five  years,  I  find  myself  at 
last  a  vacant  man,  and  reduced  to  read  for  my  amusement.  My 
Homer  is  gone  to  the  press,  and  you  will  imagine  that  I  feel  a 
void  in  consequence.  The  proofs,  however,  will  be  coming  soon, 
and  I  shall  avail  myself,  with  all  my  force,  of  this  last  opportunity 
to  make  my  work  as  perfect  as  I  wish  it.  I  shall  not,  therefore, 
be  long  time  destitute  of  employment,  but  sliall  have  sufficient  to 
keep  me  occupied  all  the  winter,  and  part  of  the  ensuing  spr'ng, 
for  Johnson  purposes  to  publish  either  in  March,  April,  or  May. 
My  very  preface  is  finished.  It  did  not  cost  me  much  trouble,, 
being  neither  long  nor  learned.  I  have  spoken  my  mind  as  freely 
as  decency  would  permit  on  the  subject  of  Pope's  version,  allowing, 
him,  at  the  same  time,  all  the  merit  to  which  I  think  him  en- 
titled. I  have  given  my  reasons  for  translating  in  blank  verse, 
and  hold  some  discourse  on  the  mechanism  of  it,  chiefly  with  a 
view  to  obviate  the  prejudices  of  some  people  against  it.  I  expa- 
tiate a  little  on  the  manner  in  which  I  think  Homer  ought  to  be 
rendered,  and  in  which  I  have  endeavoured  to  render  him  myself, 
and  anticipated  two  or  three  cavils  to  which  I  foresee  that  I  shall 
be  liable  from  the  ignorant  or  uncandid,  in  order,  if  possible,  to 
prevent  them.  These  are  the  chief  heads  of  my  preface,  and. 
the  whole  consists  of  about  twelve  pages. 

It  is  possible,  when  I  come  to  treat  with  Johnson  about  the  copy, 
I  may  want  some  person  to  negociate  for  me,  and  knowing  no  one 
so  intelligent  as  yourself  in  books,  or  so  well  qualified  to  estimate 
their  just  value,  I  shall  beg  leave  to  resort  to  and  rely  on  you  as 
my  negociator.  But  I  will  not  trouble  you  unless  I  should  see  oc- 
casion. My  cousin  was  the  bearer  of  my  MSS.  to  London.  He 
went  on  purpose,  and  returns  to-morrow.  Mrs.  Unwin's  afi^ec- 
tionate  felicitations,  added  to  my  omi,  conclude  me,  dear  friend, 
sincerely  yours,  ^V.  C. 

The  trees  of  a  colonade  will  solve  my  riddle. 


LETTER   CXLV. 
To  Mrs.  BODIL\M. 

WestoJi,  JVov,  21,  ir90. 
My  dear  Coz. 

Our  kindness  to  your  nephew  is  no  more 
than  he  must  entitle  himself  to  wherever  he  goes.  His  amiable 
disposition  and  manners  will  never  fail  to  secure  him  a  warnx 
place  in  the  affections  of  all  who  know  him.  The  advice  I  gave 
respecting  his  poem  on  Audley  End  was  dictated  by  my  love 
of  him,  and  a  sincere  desire  of  his  success.  It  is  one  thing  to. 
■write  what  may  please  our  friends,  wlio,  because  they  are  such^ 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  219 

sire  apl  to  be  a  little  biassed  in  our  favour ;  and  another  to  write 
Tf'hat  may  please  every  body :  because  they  who  have  no  connec- 
tion, or  even  knowledge  of  the  author,  will  be  sure  to  find  fault 
if  they  can.  My  advice,  however  salutary  and  necessary,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  was  such  as  I  dare  not  have  given  to  a  poet  of  less 
diffidence  than  he.  Poets  are  to  a  proverb  irritable,  and  he  is 
the  >.!ily  one  I  ever  knew  who  seems  to  have  no  spark  of  that  fire 
about  him.  He  has  left  us  about  a  fortnight,  and  sorry  we  Avere  to 
lose  him ;  but  had  he  been  my  son  he  must  have  gone,  and  I  could 
not  have  regi-etted  him  more.  If  his  sister  be  still  with  you,  pre- 
sent my  love  to  her,  and  tell  her  how  much  I  wish  to  see  them 
at  Weston  together. 

Mrs.  Hewitt  probably  remembers  more  of  my  childliood  than  I 
can  recollect  cither  of  hers  or  my  own ;  but  this  I  recollect,  that 
the  days  of  that  period  were  happy  days,  compared  with  most  I 
have  seen  since.  There  are  few,  perliaps,  in  the  world,  who  have 
not  cause  to  look  l^ack  with  regret  on  the  days  of  infancy  ;  yet,  to 
say  the  truth,  I  suspect  some  deception  in  this:  for  infancy  itself 
has  its  cares,  and  though  we  cannot  now  conceive  how  trifles  could 
affect  us  much,  it  is  certain  that  they  did.  Trifles  they  appear 
jiow,  but  such  they  were  not  then,  W.  C. 


LETTER  CXLVL 
To  JOHN  JOHNSON,  Esquire. 
My  Birth-Day. 

Friday i  .A'bf.  26,  17'90. 
My  dearest  Johnny, 

I  am  happy  that  you  have  escaped  from 
the  claws  of  Euclid  into  the  bosom  of  Justinian.  It  is  useful,  I 
suppose,  to  every  man  to  be  well  grounded  in  the  principles  of 
jurisprudence,  and  I  take  it  to  l>e  a  branch  of  science  that  bids 
much  fairer  to  enlarge  the  mind,  and  give  an  accuracy  of  i-ea- 
soning,  than  all  the  mathematics  in  the  world.  Mind  your  studies, 
and  you  will  soon  be  wiser  than  I  can  hope  to  be. 

Wc  had  a  visit  on  Monday  from  one  of  the  first  Avomen  in  the 
■world — in  point  of  character  I  mean,  and  accomplishments — the 
Dowager  Lady  Spencer!  I  may  receive,  perhaps,  some  honours 
hereafter,  should  my  translation  speed  accoi'ding  to  my  wishes, 
and  the  pains  I  have  taken  with  it ;  but  shall  never  receive  any 
that  I  shall  esteem  so  highly.  She  is,  indeed,  worthy  to  whon)  I 
should  dedicate,  aiid  may  but  my  Odyssey  prove  as  worthy  of  her, 
I  shall  have  nothing  to  fear  from  the  critics. 

Yours,  my  dear  Johnny,  witli  much  affection,        \^'.  C. 


22»  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

LETTER  CXLVIL 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 
My  dear  Friend,  Weston^  M)V.  30,  irSO. 

I  will  confess  that  I  thought  your  letter* 
somewhat  tardy,  though,  at  the  same  time,  I  made  every  excuse  for 
you,  except,  as  it  seems,  the  right.  That^  indeed,  was  out  of  the 
reach  of  all  possible  conjecture.  I  could  not  guess  that  your  si- 
lence was  occasioned  by  your  being  occupied  with  either  thieves 
or  thief-takers.  Since,  however,  the  cause  was  such,  I  i*ejoicc 
that  your  labours  were  not  in  vain,  and  that  the  free-booters  who 
had  plundered  your  friend  are  safe  in  limbo.  I  admire,  too,  as 
much  as  I  rejoice  in  your  success,  the  indefatigable  spirit  that 
prompted  you  to  pursue,  with  such  unremitting  perseverance,  an 
object  not  to  be  reached  but  at  the  expense  of  infinite  trouble,  and 
that  must  have  led  you  into  an  acquaintance  with  scenes  and  cha- 
racters the  most  horrible  to  a  mind  like  yours.  I  see  in  this  con- 
duct the  zeal  and  firmness  of  your  friendship,  to  whomsoever  pro- 
fessed ;  and  though  I  wanted  not  a  proof  of  it  myself,  contemplate 
so  unequivocal  an  indication  of  what  you  really  are,  and  of  what 
I  always  believed  you  to  be,  with  much  pleasure.  May  you  rise 
from  the  condition  of  an  humble  prosecutor,  or  witness,  to  the 
bench  of  judgment. 

When  your  letter  arrived,  it  found  me  with  the  worst  and  most 
obstinate  cold  that  I  ever  caught.  This  was  one  reason  why  it 
had  not  a  speedier  answer.  Another  is,  that,  except  Tuesday 
morning,  there  is  none  in  the  week  in  which  I  am  not  engaged  in 
the  last  revisal  of  my  translation ;  the  revisal,  I  mean,  of  my 
proof-sheets.  To  this  business  I  give  myself  with  an  assiduity  and 
iittcntion  truly  admir?J)Ie;  and  set  an  example  which,  if  other 
poets  could  be  apprized  of,  they  would  do  well  to  follow.  Mis.- 
carriages  in  authorship,  I  am  persuaded,  are  as  often  to  be  as- 
cribed to  want  of  pains-taking  as  to  want  of  ability. 

Lady  Hesketh,  Mrs.  Unwin  and  myself  often  mention  you,  and 
always  in  terms  that,  though  you  would  blush  to  hear  them,  you 
need  not  be  ashamed  of:  at  the  same  time  wishing  m.uch  that  you 
could  change  our  trio  into  a  quartetto.  W,  C. 

LETTER  CXLMIL 
To  JOHN  JOHNSON,  Esquire. 

Weston^  Bee.  IS,  1/90. 
I  perceive  myself  so  flattered  by  the  in- 
stances of  illustrious  success  mentioned  in  your  letter,  that  I  feel  all 
the  amiable  mGdeKt_v,  for  which  I  was  once  so  famous,  sensibly 
giving  -svay  to  a  spirit  of  vain-glc/ry. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  221 

The  Kinn-'s  College  sul^scription  makes  mc  proiuT.  The  effect 
t^iat  my  verses  have  had  on  your  two  young  friends,  the  mathe- 
maticians, makes  me  proud,  and  I  am,  if  possible,  prouder  siill 
of  the  contents  of  the  letter  that  you  enclosed. 

You  complained  of  being  stupid,  and  sent  mc  one  of  the  cle- 
verest letters.  I  have  not  complained  of  being  stupid,  and  have 
sent  vou  one  of  the  dullest.  But  it  is  no  matter;  I  never  aim  at 
any  thing  above  tlie  pitch  of  every  day's  scribble,  when  I  write  to 
those  I  love. 

Homer  proceeds,  my  boy — We  shall  get  through  it  in  time,  and 
I  hope  ijy  the  time  appointed.  We  are  now  in  the  tenth  Iliad.  I 
expect  the  ladies  every  minute  to  breakfast.  You  have  their  best 
love.  Mine  attends  the  whole  army  of  Donnes  at  Mattishall  Green 
assembled.  How  happy  should  I  find  myself  were  I  but  one  of  the 
party !  My  capering  days  are  over,  but  do  you  caper  for  me, 
that  you  may  give  them  some  idea  of  the  happiness  1  should  feel 
verc  I  in  the  midst  of  them.  W.  C. 

LETTER  CXLIX. 
To  JOHN  JOHNSON,   Esquire. 

Weston,  Jan.  21,  1791. 
I  know  that  you  have  already  been  ca- 
techized by  Lady  Hesketh  on  the  subject  of  your  return  hither 
before  the  winter  shall  be  over,  and  shall  therefore  only  say,  that 
if  you  can  come,  we  shall  be  happy  to  receive  j'ou.  Remember 
also,  that  nothing  can  excuse  the  non-performance  of  a  promise 
but  absolute  necessity.  In  the  mean  time,  my  faith  in  your  veracity 
is  such,  that  I  am  persuaded  you  will  suffer  nothing  less  than  ne- 
cessity to  prevent  it.  Were  you  not  extremely  pleasant  to  us,  and 
just  the  sort  of  youth  that  suits  us,  we  should  neither  of  us  have 
said  half  so  much,  or  perhaps  a  word  on  the  subject. 

Yours,  my  dear  Johnny,  are  vagaries  that  I  hhall  never  see  prac- 
tised by  any  other,  and  whether  you  slap  your  ancle,  or  reel  as  if 
you  were  fuddled,  or  dance  in  the  path  before  me,  all  is  charrxter- 
istic  of  yourself,  and  therefore  to  me  delightful.  I  have  hinted  to 
you,  indeed,  sometimes,  that  you  should  be  cautious  of  indulging 
antic  halnts  and  singularities  of  all  sorts,  and  yf  ung  men  in  general 
have  need  enough  of  such  admonition ;  but  yours  are  a  sort  of  fairy 
habits,  such  as  might  belong  to  Puck  or  Rol)in  Cioodfellow  ;  and, 
therefore,  good  as  the  ad\  ice  is,  I  should  be  half  sorry  should  you 
take  it. 

This  allowance,  at  least,  I  give  you.  Continue  to  take  your 
Avalks,  if  walks  they  may  be  called,  exactly  in  their  pre;  cut  fa- 
shion, till  ycu  have  taken  ordcri:.     Then,  indeed,  for  as  nuich  as 


222  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

a  skipping,  curvetting,  bounding  divine  might  be  a  spectacle  not 
altogether  seemly,  I  shall  consent  to  your  adoption  of  a  more 
grave  demeanour.  W.  C. 

LETTER  CL. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 
My  dear  Friend,  The  Lodge,  Feb.  S,  1791, 

My  letters  to  you  are  all  either  peti- 
tionary, or  in  the  style  of  ackowledgments  and  thanks,  and  such 
nearly  in  an  alternate  order.  In  my  last  I  loaded  you  with  com- 
jnissions,  for  the  due  discharge  of  which  I  am  now  to  say,  and  say 
truly,  how  much  I  feel  myself  obliged  to  you.  Neither  can  I  stop 
there,  but  must  thank  you  likewise  for  new  honours  from  Scotland, 
"which  have  left  me  nothing  to  Avish  for  from  that  countiy,  for  my 
list  is  now,  I  believe,  graced  with  the  subscription  of  all  its  learned 
bodies.  I  regret  only  that  some  of  them  arrived  too  late  to  dc> 
honour  to  my  present  publication  of  names ;  but  there  are  those 
among  them,  and  from  Scotland  too,  that  may  give  an  useful  hint, 
perhaps,  to  our  own  universities.  Your  very  handsome  present  of 
Pope's  Homer  has  arrived  safe,  notwithstanding  an  accident  that 
befell  him  by  the  way.  The  hall-servant  brought  the  parcel  from 
Olney,  resting  it  on  the  pommel  of  the  saddle,  and  his  horse  fell 
vith  him :  Pope  was,  in  consequence,  rolled  in  the  dirt,  but  being 
Avell  coated  got  no  damage.  If  augurs  and  soothsayers  were  not 
out  of  fashion,  I  should  have  consulted  one  or  two  of  that  order,  in 
Jiope  of  learning  from  them  that  this  fall  was  ominous.  I  have 
found  a  place  for  him  in  the  parlour,  where  he  makes  a  splendid 
appearance,  and  where  he  shall  not  long  want  a  neighbour;  one 
who,  if  less  popular  than  himself,  shall  at  least  look  as  big  as  he. 
How  has  it  happened,  that  since  Pope  did  certainly  dedicate  both 
Iliad  and  Odyssey,  no  dedication  is  found  in  this  first  edition  of 
them?  '  W.  C. 

lettp:r  cli. 

To   Lady    HESKETH. 

Feb.  13,  ir91. 
I  can  now  send  you  a  full  and  true  ac- 
count of  this  business :  having  learned  that  your  inn  at  Woburn 
T»'as  the  George,  we  sent  Samuel  thither  yesterday.     Mr.  Martin, 
master  of  the  George,  told  him  *************,■!■ 

W.  C. 

+  Note  hy  the  Editor. — This  letter  comniiied  the  history  of  a  servant's  cruelty  to  a  post- 
horse,  which  a  reader  of  humanity  couKl  not  wish  to  sec  in  print.  But  the  postscript  de- 
scribes so  pleasantly  the  s'gnal  influence  of  a  poet's  repiit^ition  on  the  spirit  of  a  liberal  inn- 
keeper, that  it  surely  ought  not  to  be  suppressed. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  225 

P.  S.  I  cannot  help  adding  a  circumstance  that  will  divert  you. 
Martin  having  learned  from  Sam  whose  servant  he  was,  told  i\im 
that  he  had  never  seen  Mr.  Cowper,  but  he  had  heard  him  fre- 
quently spoken  of  by  the  companies  that  had  called  at  his  house  ; 
and  therefore,  when  Sam  would  have  paid  for  his  breakfast,  would 
take  nothing  from  him.  Who  says  that  fame  is  only  empty  breath ? 
On  the  contrary,  it  is  good  ale  and  cold  beef  into  the  bargain 


LETTER  CLIL 
To  JOHN  JOHNSON,  Esquire. 

Feb.  27,  179I, 
Now,  my  dearest  Johnny,  I  must  tell  thee, 
in  few  words,  how  much  I  love  and  am  obliged  to  thee  for  thy  af- 
fectionate services. 

My  Cambridge  honours  are  all  to  be  ascribed  to  you,  and  to  you 
only.  Yet  you  are  but  a  little  man,  and  a  little  man  into  the  bar- 
gain, who  have  kicked  the  mathematics,  their  idol,  out  of  your 
study.  So  important  are  the  endings  which  Providence  frequently 
connects  with  small  beginnings.  Had  you  been  here,  I  could  have 
furnished  you  with  much  employment,  for  I  have  so  dealt  with 
your  fair  MSS.  in  the  course  of  mj'  polishing  and  improving,  that  I 
have  almost  blotted  out  the  whole:  such,  however,  as  it  is,  I  must 
now  send  it  to  the  printer,  and  he  must  be  content  with  it,  for 
there  is  not  time  to  make  a  frcyh  copy.  We  are  now  printing  the 
second  book  of  the  Odyssey. 

Should  the  Oxonians  bestow  none  of  their  notice  on  me  on  this 
occasion,  it  will  happen  singularly  enough,  that  as  Pope  received 
all  his  university  honours,  in  the  sixbscription  way,  from  Oxford, 
and  none  at  all  from  Cambridge,  so  I  shall  have  received  all  mine 
from  Cambridge,  and  none  from  Oxford.  This  is  the  more  likely 
to  be  the  case,  because  I  understand,  that  on  whatsoever  occasion 
either  of  those  learned  bodies  thinks  fit  to  move,  the  other  alwa}"s 
makes  it  a  point  to  sit  still — thus  proving  its  superiority. 

I  shall  send  up  your  letter  to  Lady  Hesketh  in  a  day  or  two, 
knowing  that  the  intelligence  contained  in  it  will  afford  her  the 
greatest  pleasure.  Know,  likewise,  for  your  own  gratification, 
that  all  the  Scotch  universities  have  subscribed,  none  excepted. 

We  are  all  as  well  as  usual;  that  is  to  sa}-,  as  well  as  reasonable 
folks  expect  to  be  on  the  crazy  side  of  this  frail  existence. 
I  rejoice  that  we  shall  so  soon  have  you  ag.iia  at  cur  fire -side. 

W.  C. 


224  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

LETTER  CLIIL 

To  JOSEPH  HILL,   Esquire. 

Weston,  March  6,  1?91, 
After  all  this  plougliing  and  sowing  on 
the  plains  of  Troy,  once  fruitful,  such  at  ieabt  to  my  translating 
predecessor,  some  harvest,  I  hope,  will  arise  for  me  also.  My 
long  work  has  received  its  last,  last  touches;  and  I  am  now  giving 
my  preface  its  final  adjustment.  We  are  in  the  fourth  Odyssey  in 
the  course  of  our  printing,  and  I  expect  that  I  and  the  swallows 
shall  appear  together :  they  have  slept  all  the  winter,  but  I,  on  the 
contrary,  have  been  extremely  busy ;  yet  if  I  can  "  Viriun  uoli- 
tare  ficr  ora"  as  swiftly  as  they  through  the  air,  I  shall  account 
myself  well  requited.  W.  C. 

LETTER  CLIV. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esquire. 

March  10,  179U 
Give  my  aifectionate  remembrances  to 
your  sisters,  and  tell  them  I  am  impatient  to  entertain  them  with 
my  old  story  new  dressed. 

I  have  two  French  prints  hanging  in  my  study,  both  on  Iliad 
subjects;  and  I  have  an  English  one  in  the  parlour,  on  a  subject 
from  the  same  poem.  In  one  of  the  former,  Agamemnon  addresses 
Achilles  exactly  in  the  attitude  of  a  dancing-master  turning  Miss 
in  a  minuet:  in  the  latter,  the  figures  are  plain,  and  the  altitudes 
plain  also.  This  is,  in  some  considerable  measure,  I  believe,  the 
difference  between  my  translation  and  Pope's ;  and  will  serve  as 
an  exemplification  of  what  I  am  going  to  lay  before  you,  and  the 
public.  ^^'«  C. 

LETTER  CLV. 
To  JOHN  JOHNSON,  Esquire. 
My  dearest  Johnny,  Weston,  March  19,  1791. 

You  ask  if  it  may  not  be  improper  to 
solicit  Lady  Hesketh's  subscription  to  the  poems  of  the  Norwich 
maiden?  To  which  I  reply,  it  will  be  by  no  means  improper:  on 
the  contrary,  I  am  persuaded  that  she  will  give  her  name  with  a 
veiy  good  will,  for  she  is  much  an  admirer  of  poesy  that  is  worthy 
to  be  admired ;  and  such  I  think,  judging  by  the  specimen,  the 
])ocsy  of  this  maiden,  Elizabeth  Bentley,  of  Norwich,  is  likely  to 
prove. 

Not  that  I  am  myself  inclined  to  expect,  in  general,  great  mat- 
ters in  the  poetical  way  from  persons  whose  ill  fortune  it  has  been 
to  want  the  common  advantages  of  education  j  neither  do  I  account 


LIFE  OF  COWPER,  225 

it,  in  general,  a  kindness  to  such  to  encourage  them  in  the  indul- 
gence of  a  propensity  more  likely  to  do  tlieni  harm,  in  the  end, 
than  to  advance  their  interest.  Many  such  phenomena  have  arisen 
within  my  remembrance,  at  which  all  the  worid  has  wondered  for 
a  season,  and  has  then  forgot  them. 

The  fact  is,  that  though  strong  natural  genius  is  always  accom- 
panied with  strong  natural  tendency  to  its  object,  yet  it  often  hap- 
peis  that  the  tendency  is  found  where  the  genius  is  wanting.  In 
the  present  instance,  however,  (the  poems  of  a  certain  Mrs.  Lea- 
por  excepted,  who  published  some  forty  years  ago)  I  discern,  I 
tiiink,  more  marks  of  a  true  poetical  talent  than  I  rememi^er  to 
have  observed  in  the  verses  of  any  other  male  or  female  so  dis- 
advantageously  circumstanced.  I  wi^h  her,  tlierefcre,  good  speed, 
and  subscribe  to  lier  a\  ith  all  my  heart. 

You  will  rejoice  when  I  tell  you  that  I  have  some  hopes,  after" 
all,  of  a  harvest  fi'om  Oxford  also  :  Mr.  Throckmorton  has  writ- 
ten to  a  person  of  considerable  influence  there,  which  he  has  de- 
sired him  to  exert  in  my  favour,  and  his  request,  I  should  imagine, 
will  hardly  prove  a  vain  one.     Adieu.  W,  C. 


LETTER  CLVI. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 
My  dear  Friend,  IVesto?!,  March  24,  1791, 

You  apologize  for  your  silence  in  a  manner 
which  affords  me  so  much  pleasure  that  I  cannot  but  be  satisfied. 
Let  business  be  the  cause,  and  I  am  contented.  That  is  a  cause 
to  which  I  would  even  be  accessary  myself,  and  would  increase 
yours  by  any  means,  except  by  a  law-suit  of  my  own,  at  the  ex- 
pense of  all  your  opportunities  of  writing  oftener  than  thrice  in  a 
twelvemonth. 

Your  application  to  Dr.  Dunbar  reminds  me  of  two  lines  to  be 
found  some  where  in  Dr.  Young — 

"  And  now  a  poet's  gratitude  you  see, 

"  Grant  him  two  favours,  and  he'll  ask  for  tlircc." 

In  this  particidar,  therefore,  I  perceive  that  a  poet  and  a  poet's 
friend  bear  a  striking  resemblance  to  each  other.  The  Doctor 
will  bless  himself  that  the  number  of  Scotch  universities  is  not 
larger,  assured  that,  if  they  equalled  those  in  England  in  num'oer 
of  ccUeges,  you  would  give  him  no  rest  till  he  had  engaged  them 
all.  It  is  true,  as  Lady  Hesketh  told  you,  that  I  shall  not  fear,  in 
the  matter  of  subscriptions,  a  comparison  even  Avith  Pope  himself. 
Considering,  I  mean,  that  we  live  in  days  of  terrible  taxation,  and 
when  verse,  not  being  a  necessary  of  life,  is  accounted  dear,  be  it 

VOL.   I.  G  g 


226  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

what  It  maj-,  even  at  the  lowest  price.  I  am  no  very  good  arith- 
metician, yet  I  calculated  the  other  day  in  my  morning  walk,  that 
my  two  volumes,  at  the  price  of  three  guineas,  will  cost  the  pur- 
chaser less  than  the  seventh  part  of  a  farthing  per  line.  Yet  there 
are  lines  among  them  that  have  cost  me  the  labour  of  hours,  and 
none  that  have  not  cost  me  some  labour.  W.  C. 


LETTER  CLVn. 
To  Mrs.  THROCKMORTON. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Frog,  a  word  or  two  be- 
fore breakfast,  which  is  all  that  I  shall  have  time  to  send  you. 

You  have  not,  I  hope,  forgot  to  tell  Mr.  Frog  how  much  I  am 
obliged  to  him  for  his  kind,  though  unsuccessflil  attempt  in  my  fa- 
vour at  Oxford.  It  seems  not  a  little  extraordinary,  that  persons 
so  nobly  patronized  themselves,  on  the  score  of  literature,  should 
resolve  to  give  no  encouragement  to  it  in  return.  Should  I  find  a 
fair  opportunity  to  thank  them  hereafter,  I  will  not  neglect  it. 

Could  Homer  come  himself,  distress'd  and  pool-, 
And  tune  his  hai-p  at  Rhedicina's  door, 
Tlie  rich  old  vixen  would  exclaim,  I  fear, 
"  Begone  I  no  trampler  gets  a  farthing  here^" 

I  have  read  your  husband's  pamphlet  through  and  through.  You 
may  think,  perhaps,  and  so  may  he,  that  a  question  so  remote 
from  all  concern  of  mine  could  not  interest  me ;  but  if  you  think 
so,  you  are  both  mistaken.  He  can  write  nothing  that  will  not  in- 
terest me  ;  in  the  first  place  for  the  writer's  sake,  and  in  the  next 
place,  because  he  v/rites  better  and  reasons  better  tlian  any  body ; 
with  more  candour,  and  with  more  sufficiency ;  and,  consequently, 
with  more  satisfaction  to  all  his  readers,  save  only  his  opponents* 
Tliey,  I  think,  by  this  time,  wish  that  they  had  let  him  alone. 

Tom  is  delighted  past  measure  with  his  wooden  nag,  and  gallops 
at  a  rate  that  would  kill  any  horse  that  had  a  life  to  lose. 

W.  C. 

LETTER  CLVIIL 

To  JOHN  JOHNSON,  Esquire. 
My  DEAR  JoHNNi',  lVesto?7,  JfirilS^  1791, 

A  thousand  thanks  for  your  splendid  as- 
semblage of  Cambridge  luminaries.      If  you  are  not  contented 
with  your  collection,  it  can  only  be  because  you  are  unreasonable ; 
for  I,  who  may  be  supposed  more  covetous  on  this  occasion  than 
anybody,  am  highly  satisfied,  and  even  delighted  with  it.    If,  in- 


LIFE  OF  CO\WER.  22t 

deed,  you  should  find  it  practicable  to  add  still  to  tlie  number,  I 
liavc  not  the  least  objection ;  but  tliis  charge  I  give  you. 

Stay  not  an  hour  beyond  the  time  you  have  mentioned,  even 
though  you  should  be  al)!e  to  add  a  thousand  names  by  doing  so ; 
for  I  cannot  afford  to  purchase  them  at  that  cost.  I  long  to  see 
}ou,  and  so  do  we  both,  and  will  not  suffer  you  to  postpone  your 
visit  for  any  such  consideration.  No,  my  dear  boy,  in  the  affair  of 
subscriptions  we  are  already  illustrious  enough ;  shall  be  so  at  least 
when  you  shall  have  enlisted  a  college  or  two  moi'e,  which,  per- 
haps, you  may  be  able  to  do  in  the  course  of  the  ensuing  week.  I 
feel  myself  much  obliged  to  your  university,  and  much  disposed  to 
admire  the  liberality  of  spirit  they  have  shown  on  this  occasion. 
Certainly  I  had  not  deserved  much  favour  of  their  hands,  all  things 
considered;  but  the  cause  of  literature  seems  to  have  some  weight 
■with  them,  and  to  have  superseded  the  resentment  they  might  be 
supposed  to  entertain  on  the  score  of  certain  censures  that  you  wot 
of.    It  is  not  so  at  Oxford.  W.  C. 

LETTER  CLIX. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

A/iril  29,  1791. 
I  forget  if  I  told  you  that  Mr.  Throck- 
morton had  applied,  through  the  medium  of ,  to  the  university 

of  Oxford.     He  did  so,  but  without  success.     Their  answer  was, 
*'  that  they  subscribe  to  nothing." 

Pope's  subscriptions  did  not  amount,  I  think,  to  six  hundred ; 
and  mine  will  not  fall  very  far  short  of  five.  Noble  doings,  at  a 
time  of  day  wlien  Homer  has  no  news  to  tell  us,  and  when  all  other 
comforts  of  life  having  risen  in  price,  poetry  has  of  course  fallen, 
I  call  it  a  "  comfort  of  life:"  it  is  so  to  others,  but  to  myself  it  is 
become  even  a  necessary. 

These  holiday  times  are  very  unfavouralile  to  the  printer's  pro- 
gress. He  and  all  his  demons  are  making  themselves  mei'ry,  and 
me  sad,  for  I  mourn  at  every  hinderance.  W.  C. 

LETTER  CLX. 
To  JOHN  JOHNSON,  Esquire. 

M Y  D  F.  A  R  E  s  T  J  0 H  N N Y,  Westou,  May  23,  179U 

Did  I  not  know  that  you  are  never  more 
in  your  element  than  when  you  are  exerting  yourself  in  my  cause, 
I  shoidd  congratulate  you  on  the  hope  there  seems  to  be  that  your 
labour  will  soon  have  an  end. 


22S  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

"¥"ou  will  wonder,  perhaps,  my  Johnny,  that  Mrs.  Unwin,  by  luy 
desire,  enjoined  you  to  secrecy  concerning  the  translation  of  the 
Frogs  and  Mice.  Wonderful  it  may  well  seem  to  you,  that  I  should 
wish  to  hide,  for  a  short  time,  from  a  few,  what  I  am  just  going 
to  publish  to  all.  But  I  had  more  reasons  than  one  for  this  myste- 
rious management ;  that  is  to  say,  I  had  two.  In  the  first  place,  I 
wished  to  surprise  my  readers  agreeably  ;  and,  secondly,  I  wished 
to  allow  none  of  my  friends  an  opportunity  to  object  to  the  mea- 
sure, who  might  think  it,  perhaps,  a  measure  more  bountiful  than 
prudent.  But  I  have  had  my  sufficient  reward,  though  not  a 
pecuniary  one.  It  is  a  poem  of  much  humour,  and  accordingly  I 
found  the  translation  of  it  very  amusing.  It  struck  me  too,  that  I 
must  either  make  it  part  of  the  present  publication,  or  never  pub- 
lish it  at  all ;  it  would  have  been  so  terribly  out  of  its  place  in  any 
other  volume. 

I  long  for  the  time  that  shall  bring  you  once  more  to  \\^eston, 
and  all  your  et  cet era's  with  you.  Oh!  what  a  month  of  May  has 
this  been  1  Let  never  poet,  English  poet  at  least,  give  himself  to 
the  praises  of  May  again,  W.  Cj 

THE  JUDGMENT  OF  THE  POETS. 

Two  Nymphs,  both  nearly  of  an  age, 

Of  numerous  charms  possess'd, 
A  Avarm  dispute  once  chanc'd  to  wage, 

Wliose  temper  was  the  best. 

The  worth  of  each  had  been  complete, 

Had  both  alike  been  mild ; 
But  one,  although  her  smile  was  sweet, 

Frown'd  oft'ner  than  she  smil'd. 

And  in  her  humour,  when  she  frown'd, 

Would  raise  her  voice  and  roar, 
And  shake  with  fury,  to  the  ground, 

The  garland  that  she  wore. 

The  other  was  of  gentler  cast. 

From  all  such  frenzy  clear; 
Her  frowns  were  seldom  knov/n  to  last, 

And  never  prov'd  severe. 

To  poets  of  renown  in  song. 

The  Nymphs  referr'd  the  cause, 
Who,  strange  to  tell,  all  judg"d  it  wrong, 

And  gave  misplac'd  applause. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  229 

They  gentle  call'd,  and  kind,  and  soft,  * 

The  flippant  and  the  scold; 
And  though  she  chang'd  her  mood  so  oft, 

That  failing  left  untold. 

No  judges,  sure,  were  e'er  so  mad, 

Or  so  resolv'd  to  err  ; 
In  short,  the  charms  her  sister  had 

They  lavish'd  all  on  her. 

Then  thus  the  God,  wliom  fondl}'  they 

Their  great  inspirer  call, 
Was  heard,  one  genial  summer's  day, 

To  reprimand  them  all. 

"  Since  thus  ye  have  combin'd,"  he  said, 

"  My  fav'rite  Nymph  to  slight, 
"  Adorning  May,  that  peevish  maid, 

"  With  June's  undoubted  right ; 

"  The  Minx  shall,  for  your  folly's  sake, 

"  Still  prove  herself  a  shi-ew^ ; 
'*  Shall  make  your  scribbling  fingers  ache, 

"  And  pinch  your  noses  blue," 


LETTER  CLXI. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 
My  dear  Friend,  The  Lodge,  June  15,  1791. 

If  it  will  afford  you  any  comfort  that  you 
have  a  share  in  my  affections,  of  that  comfort  you  may  avail  your- 
self at  all  times.  You  have  acquired  it  by  means  which,  unless  I 
Uiould  become  worthless  myself,  to  an  uncommon  degree,  will  al- 
•ways  secure  you  from  the  loss  of  it.  You  are  learning  what  all 
learn,  though  few  at  so  early  an  age,  that  man  is  an  ungrateful 
animal;  and  that  benefits  too  often,  instead  of  securing  a  due  re- 
turn, operate  rather  as  provocations  to  ill-treatment.  This  I  take 
to  be  the  summum  malum  of  the  human  heart.  Towards  God  we 
are  all  guilty  of  it,  more  or  less  ;  but  between  man  and  man,  we 
may  thank  God  for  it,  there  are  some  exceptions.  He  leaves  this 
jK'Ccant  jjrinciple  to  operate,  in  some  degree  against  himself,  in 
all,  for  our  humiliation  I  suppose;  and  because  the  pernici^ms  ef- 
fects of  it  cannot,  in  reality,  injure  him ;  he  cannot  suffer  by  them ; 
but  he  knows,  that  unless  he  should  restrain  its  influence  on  the 
ckalings  of  mankind  with  each  other,  the  bonds  of  society  would 
be  dissolved,  and  all  charitable  intercourse  at  an  end  amonjst  us. 


230  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

It  was  said  of  Archbishop  Cranmer,  "  Do  him  an  ill  turn,  and 
you  make  him  your  friend  for  ever:"  of  others  it  may  be  said, 
"  Do  them  a  good  one,  and  they  will  be  for  ever  your  enemies." 
It  is  the  grace  of  God  only  that  makes  the  difference. 

The  absence  of  Homer  (for  we  have  now  shaken  hands  and 
parted)  is  well  supplied  by  three  relations  of  mine  from  Norfolk — . 
my  cousin  Johnson,  an  aunt  of  his,  and  his  sister.  I  love  them  all 
dearly,  and  am  well  contented  to  resign  to  them  the  place  in  my  at- 
tentions so  lately  occupied  by  the  chiefs  of  Greece  and  Troy.  His 
aunt  and  I  have  spent  many  a  merry  day  together,  when  we  were 
some  forty  years  younger;  and  we  make  shift  to  be  merry  together 
still.  His  sister  is  a  sweet  young  woman,  graceful,  good-natured, 
and  gentle,  just  what  I  had  imagined  her  to  be  before  I  had  seen  her. 
Farewell!  VV.  C. 


The  occurrences  related  in  the  series  of  letters  that  I  have  just 
imparted  to  my  reader,  have  now  brought  me  to  the  close  of  the 
second  period  in  my  work.  As  I  contemplated  the  life  of  my  friend, 
it  seemed  to  display  itself  in  three  obvious  divisions;  the  first  end- 
ing with  the  remarkp.blc  xra  when  he  burst  forth  on  the  world,  as 
a  poet,  in  his  fiftieth  year ;  on  which  occasion  we  may  apply 
to  him  the  lively  compliment  of  Waller  to  Denham,  and  say,  with 
superior  truth,  "  He  burst  out  like  the  Irish  rebellion,  three  score 
thousand  strong,  when  nobody  was  aware,  or  in  the  least  suspected 
it."  The  second  division  may  conclude  with  the  publication  of  his 
Homer;  comprizing  the  incidents  often  splendid  and  fruitful  years, 
that  may  be  regarded  as  the  meridian  of  his  poetical  careei-.  The 
subsequent  pei-iod  extends  to  that  awful  event  which  terminates 
every  laljour  of  the  poet  and  the  man. 

We  have  seen,  in  many  of  the  preceding  letters,  with  what  ar- 
dour of  application  and  liveliness  of  hope  he  devoted  himself  to  his 
favourite  project  of  enriching  the  literature  of  his  country  Avith  an 
English  Homer,  that  inight  be  justly  esteemed  as  a  faithful,  yet 
free  translation ;  a  genuine  and  graceful  representative  of  the  justly 
idolized  original. 

After  five  years  of  intense  and  affectionate  labour,  in  which  no- 
thing could  withhold  him  from  his  interesting  work,  except  that 
oppressive  and  cruel  malady  which  suspended  his  powers  of  ap- 
plication for  several  months,  he  puljlished  his  complete  version  in 
two  quarto  volumes,  on  the  first  of  July,  1791 ;  having  inscribed  the 
Iliad  to  his  young  noble  kinsman,  Eai'l  Co\vper,  and  the  Odyssey 
to  the  Dowager  Countess  Spencer,  a  lady  for  whose  virtues  he 
had  long  entertained  a  most  cordial  and  affectionate  veneration. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  231 

The  accomplished  translator  had  exerted  no  common  powers  of 
genius  and  of  industry  to  satisfy  both  himself  and  the  world;  yet, 
in  his  first  edition  of  this  long-laboured  work,  he  afforded  complete 
satisfaction  to  neither,  and  I  believe  for  this  reason  :  Homer  is  so 
exquisitely  beautiful  in  his  own  language,  and  he  has  been  so  long 
an  idol  in  every  literary  mind,  that  any  copy  of  him,  which  the 
best  of  modern  poets  can  execute,  must  probably  resemble,  in  its 
effect,  the  portrait  of  a  graceful  woman,  painted  by  an  excellent 
artist  for  her  lover:  the  lover,  indeed,  will  acknowledge  great 
merit  in  the  work,  and  think  himself  much  indebted  to  the  skill  of 
such  an  artist ;  but  he  will  never  acknowledge,  as  in  truth  he  never 
can  feel,  that  the  best  of  resemblances  exhibits  all  the  grace  that 
he  discerns  in  the  beloved  original. 

So  fares  it  Avith  the  admirers  of  Homer ;  his  very  translators 
themselves  feel  so  perfectly  the  power  of  this  predominant  aflFec- 
tion,  that  they  gradually  grow  discontented  with  their  own  labour, 
however  approved  in  the  moment  of  its  supposed  completion. 
This  was  so  remarkably  the  case  with  Cowper,  that,  in  process  of 
time,  we  shall  see  him  employed  upon  v.'hat  may  almost  be  called 
his  second  translation  ;  so  great  were  the  alterations  he  made  in  a 
deliberate  revisal  of  his  work  for  a  second  edition.  And  in  the 
preface  which  he  prepared  for  that  edition,  he  has  spoken  of  his 
own  labour  with  the  most  frank  and  ingenuous  veracity.  Yet  of 
the  first  edition  it  may,  I  think,  be  fairly  said,  that  it  accomplished 
more  than  any  of  his  poetical  predecessors  had  achieved  before 
him.  It  made  the  nearest  approach  to  that  sweet  majestic  simpli- 
city which  forms  one  of  the  most  attractive  features  in  the  great 
prince  and  father  of  poets. 

Cowper,  in  reading  Pope's  Homer  to  Lady  Austen  and  Mrs. 
Unwin,  had  frequently  expressed  a  wish,  and  an  expectation  of 
seeing  the  simplicity  of  the  ancient  Bard  more  faithfully  preserved 
in  a  new  English  version.  Lady  Austen,  with  a  kind  severit}", 
reproved  him  for  expecting  from  others  what  he,  of  all  men  living, 
was  best  qualified  to  accomplish  himself;  and  her  solicitations  on 
the  sul:)ject  excited  him  to  the  arduous  undertaking;  though  it 
seems  not  to  have  been  actually  begun  till  after  her  departure 
from  Oh.ey. 

If  he  was  not  at  first  completely  successful  in  this  long  and 
mighty  work,  the  continual  and  voluntaiy  application  with  which 
he  pursued  it,  was  to  himself  a  blessing  of  the  utmost  importance. 

In  those  admirable  admonitions  to  men  of  a  poetical  tempera- 
ment, with  which  Di-.  Currie  has  closed  his  instructive  and  pleas- 
ing "  Life  of  Burns,"  that  accomplished  physician  has  justly 
pointed  to  a  regular  and  constant  occupation,  as  the  true  remedy 


^ 


232  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

for  an  inordinate  sensibility,  which  may  prove  so  perilous  aH 
enemy  to  the  peace  and  happine  ;s  of  a  poet.  His  remark  appears 
to  be  particularly  verified  in  the  striking,  and,  I  may  say,  medicinal 
influence,  which  a  daily  attachment  of  his  thoughts  to  Himer  pro- 
duced, for  a  long  time,  on  the  tender  spirits  of  my  friend ;  an  in- 
fluence sufficiently  proved  by  his  frequent  declarations,  that  he 
should  be  sorry  to  find  himself  at  the  end  of  his  labour.  The  work 
was  certainly  beneficial  to  his  health ;  it  contributed  a  little  to  his 
fortune ;  and  ultimately,  I  am  persuaded,  it  will  redound  to  his 
fame  in  a  much  higher  degree  than  it  has  hitherto  done.  Time 
will  probably  prove,  that  if  it  is  not  a  perfect  representation  of 
Homer,  it  is  at  least  such  a  copy  of  the  matchless  original,  as  no 
modern  writer  can  surpass  in  the  two  essential  articles  of  fidelity 
and  freedom. 

I  must  not  omit  to  observe  one  more  advantage  vfhich  Cowper 
derived  from  this  extensive  labour,  for  it  is  an  advantage  which 
reflects  great  honour  on  his  sensibility  as  a  man :  I  mean  a  constant 
flow  of  affectionate  pleasure  that  he  felt  in  the  many  kind  offices 
which  he  received,  from  several  friends,  in  the  course  of  this  la- 
borious occupation. 

I  cannot  more  clearly  illustrate  his  feelings  on  this  subject,  than 
bv  introducing  a  passage  from  one  of  his  letters  to  his  most  assi-* 
duous  and  affectionate  amanuensis,  his  young  kinsman  of  Norfolk. 
It  breathes  all  the  tender  moral  spirit  of  Co-\vper,  and  shall,  there-, 
fore,  close  the  second  division  of  my  work. 

Weston,  June  1,  1791. 
My  dearest  Johnny, 

Now  you  may  rest — now  I  can  give  you 
joy  of  the  period  of  which  I  gave  you  hope  in  my  last ;  the  period 
of  all  your  labours  in  my  service.  But  this  I  can  foretel  you  also, 
that  if  you  persevere  in  serving  your  friends  at  this  rate,  your  life 
is  likely  to  be  a  life  of  labour :  Yet  persevere;  your  rest  will  be 
the  sweeter  hereafter.  In  the  mean  time  I  wish  you,  if  at  any  time 
you  should  find  occasion  for  him,  just  such  a  friend  as  you  have 
proved  to  me.  W.  C» 


END  OF  THE  SECOND  PART,   AND  OF  THE  FIRST  VOLUME, 


THE 


LIFE 


POSTHUMOUS   WRITINGS 


WILLIAM  COJVPER,  Esq. 


V 


THE 

LIFE 

AND 

POSTHUMOUS  WRITINGS 

WILLIAM  COWPER,  ESQ. 

WITH  AN 

INTRODUCTORY  LETTER 

TO  THE 

RIGHT  HONOURABLE  EARL  COWPER. 


^ 


BY  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESQ. 


"  Obversatur  ociilis  ille  vir,  quo  neminem  xtas  nostra  gravlorem,  sanc- 
"  tiorem,  subtiliorem  denique  tulit :  quern  ego  quum  ex  admiratione  diii- 
"  gere  coepissem,  quod  evenire  contra  solet,  magis  admiratus  sum,  post- 
"  quam  penitus  inspexi.  Inspexi  enim  penitus :  nihil  a  me  ille  secretum, 
"  nonjoculare,  non  serium,  non  triste,  non  Izetum." 

Plinii  Epist.  Lib.  iv.  Ep.  \7. 


VOL.  IL 


NEW -YORK: 


PRINTED  AND  SOLD  BY  T.  AND  J.  SWORDS, 

No.  160  Pearl-Street. 

1803. 


CONTENTS 

OF    THE 

SECOND    VOLUME. 


J-  HE  Life,  Part  the  Third — Cowper  is  solicited  to  engage  in  a  splendid 
Edition  of  Milton — acquiesces  in  the  Proposal — Origin  of  his  Intimacy 
with  his  present  Biographer — his  Friendship  for  the  late  Professor  of 
Poetry,  the  Rev.  James  Hurdis,  1  to  4. 

Letter    1     To  tlie  Rev.  Mr.  Hurdis  March    6,  1791  4 

2  To  the  same  June      13,  1791  5 

3  To  the  same  Aug.       9,  1791  6 

4  To  John  Johnson,  Esq.  Aug.       9,  1791  8 

5  To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq.  Sept.     14,  1791  ib. 

6  To  John  Johnson,  Esq.  Oct.      31,  1791  9 

7  To  Joseph  Hill,  Esq.  Nov.     14,  1791  10 

8  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hurdis  Dec.      10,  1791  ib. 

9  To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq.  Dec.     21,   1791  11 

10  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hurdis  Feb.      21,  1792  12 

11  To  the  same  March    2,  1792  13 

12  To  John  Johnson,  E.sq.  March  11,  1792  ib. 

Verses  to  the  Nigh 

13  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hurdis 

14  To  Lady  Hesketh 

15  To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

16  To  the  same 

17  To  William  Hay  ley,  Esq. 

18  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hurdis 

19  To  Lady  Throcl;morton 

Sonnet  to  William  Wiiberforce,  Esq.  page  21. 

20  To  Lady  Hesketh  May        5,  1792 

21  To  John  Johnson,  Esq.  May     20,  1792 
The  Author's  Visit  to  Weston,  24.     Sonnet  to  Mrs.  Unv/in,  by  Cowper,  24, 

Her  severe  Illness  and  gradual  Recovery,  25,  26. 
Letter  22     To  Lady  Hesketh  May     24,  1792  26 

23     To  the  same  May     26,    1792  27 

Verses  to  the  late  Dr.  Austen,  of  Cecil-street,  page  23. 


March    6, 

1791 

June      13, 

1791 

Aug.       9, 

1791 

Aug.      9, 

1791 

Sept.     14, 

1791 

Oct.      31, 

1791 

Nov.     14, 

1791 

Dec.      10, 

1791 

Dec.     21, 

1791 

Feb.      21, 

1792 

March    2, 

1792 

March  11, 

1792 

le,  page  14 

March  23, 

1792 

March  25, 

1792 

March  30, 

1792 

April      5, 

1792 

April      6, 

1792 

April      8, 

1792 

April    16, 

1752 

Letter  24 

To  Mrs.  Bodham 

June 

4, 

1792 

25 

To  William  Hayley, 

Esq. 

June 

^1 

1792 

26 

To  the  same 

June 

5, 

1792 

27 

To  the  same 

June 

7, 

1792 

es 

To  the  same 

June 

10, 

1792 

28 
29 
ib. 
30 
31 


vl 


CONTENTS. 


Verses  to  Dr.  Darwin,  Author  of  the  Botanic  Garden,  pa^e  32. 

Letter  29 

To  William  Haylev,  Esq. 

June 

19, 

1792         Page 

33 

30 

To  the  same,  enclosing  Catha- 

rina,  2d  Part,  a  Poem 

June 

27, 

1792 

ib. 

31 

To  the  same 

July 

4, 

1792 

35 

32 

To  the  same 

July 

15, 

1792 

36 

33 

To  the  same 

July 

23, 

1792 

37 

34 

To  the  same 

July 

29, 

1792 

3» 

Cowjier's  Visit  to  Eartham,  page  3 

;9. 

Letter  35 

To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Greatheed 

Aug. 

6, 

1792 

40 

36 

To  Mrs.  Courteney 

Aug. 

12, 

1792 

41 

27 

To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

Aug. 

14, 

1792 

42 

38 

To  the  same 

Aug. 

18, 

1792 

4S 

39 

To  Mrs.  Courteney 

Aug. 

25, 

1792 

ib. 

40 

To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hurdis 

Aug. 

26, 

1792 

44 

41 

To  Lady  Hesketh 

Aug. 

26, 

1792 

45 

42 

To  the  same 

Sept. 

9, 

1792 

47 

Cowper's  Departure  from  Earthan^ 

1,  page  48. 

Letter  43 

To  William  Hayley,  Esq. 

Sept. 

18, 

1792 

48 

44 

To  the  same 

Sept. 

21, 

1792 

49 

45 

To  the  same 

Oct. 

2, 

1792 

50 

46 

To  the  same' 

Oct. 

13, 

1792 

51 

47 

To  John  Johnson,  Esq. 

Oct. 

19, 

1792 

52 

48 

To  the  same 

Oct. 

22, 

1792 

ib. 

49 

To  William  Hayley,  Esq.  en 

- 

closing  a  Sonnet  to  Romney 

Oct. 

28, 

1792 

5:i 

50 

To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

Nov. 

9, 

1792 

54 

51 

To  John  Johnson,  Esq. 

Nov. 

20, 

1792 

55 

52 

To  William  Hayley,  Esq. 

Nov. 

22, 

1792 

56 

5i 

To  Joseph  Hill,  Esq. 

Dec. 

16, 

1792 

ib. 

54 

To  William  Hayley,  Esq. 

Dec. 

26, 

1792 

58 

55 

To  the  same 

Jan. 

20, 

1793 

ib. 

56 

To  the  same 

Jan. 

29, 

1793 

59 

57 

To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

Feb. 

5, 

1793 

60 

58 

To  Lady  Hesketh 

Feb. 

10, 

1793 

ib. 

59 

To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

Feb. 

17, 

1793 

61 

60 

To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hurdis 

Feb. 

23, 

1793 

62 

61 

To  William  Hayley,  Esq. 

Feb. 

24, 

1793 

m 

62 

To  Mr.  Thomas  Hayley 

March  14, 

1793 

64 

63 

To  William  Hayley,  Esq. 

March  19, 

1793 

66 

64 

To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

March 

27, 

1793 

67 

65 

To  John  Johnson,  Esq. 

April 

11, 

1793 

68 

66 

To  William  Hayley,  Esq. 

April 

23, 

1793 

ib. 

67 

To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

May 

5, 

1793 

69 

68 

To  Lady  Hesketh 

May 

7, 

1793 

70 

69 

To  William  Hayley,  Esq. 

May 

21, 

1793 

71 

T€ 

To  Lady  Hesketh 

June 

1, 

1793 

72 

CONTENTS.  vii 

Letter  I'l  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hurdis  June  6,  1793         Page    73 

72  To  William  Hayley,  Esq.  June  20,  1793  ib. 

73  To  the  same  July  7,  1793  75 

74  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Greatheed  July  23,  1793  76 

75  To  "W^illiam  Hayley.  Esq.  July  24,  1793  77 

76  To  Lady  Hesketh  Aug.  11,  1793  78 

77  To  William  Hayley,  Esq.  Aug.  15,  1793  79 

78  To  Mrs.  Courteney,  Aug.  20,  1793  80 

79  To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq.  Aug.  22,  1793  81 

80  To  AVilliam  Hayley,   Esq.  Aug.  27,  1793  ib. 

81  To  Lady  Hesketh  Aug.  29,  1793  83 

82  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Johnson  Sept.  6,   1793  ib. 

83  To  William  Hayley,  Esq.           Sept.  8,  1793  85 

84  To  Mrs.  Courteney                      Sept.  16,  1793  ib. 

85  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Johnson           Sept.  29,  1793  86 

86  To  William  Hayley,  Esq.          Oct.  5,  1793  87 

87  To  the  same                                 Oct.  18,  1793  88 
The  Author's   second  Visit  to  Weston — other  Guests  of  Cowper,    his 

Kinsman  Mr.  Johnson,  and  Mr.  Rose;  the  latter  commissioned  by  Lord 
Spencer  to  invite  Cowper  and  all  his  Guests  to  Althorpe — the  State  of 
Mrs.  Unwin's  Health  induces  him  to  decline  the  Invitation,  page  89. 
Letter  88     To  Mrs.  Courteney 

89  To  Jeseph  Hill,  Esq. 

90  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hurdis 

91  To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq. 

92  To  the  same 

93  To  William  Hayley,  Esq. 
^Origin  of  Cowper's  projected  Poem  on  the  four  Ages  of  Man — his  Billet 

to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Buchanan,  page  95,  96.  Commencement  of  the  Poem, 
97.  The  Health  of  Cowper  declines — the  Incident  that  gave  rise  to 
the  two  last  of  his  cheerful  Letters,  98  to  100. 

Letter  94     To  William  Hayley,  Esq.  Dec.     17,  1793  lOO' 

95     To  the  same  Jan.        5,  1794  101 

The  Author  induced  to  visit  Weston,  in  the  severe  Illness  of  Cowper,  by 
a  friendly  E.xhortation  from  Mr.  Greatheed,  page  103.  The  Sufierings 
of  the  Invalid — the  ineffectual  Sympathy  of  his  Friends — the  Grant  of 
a  Pension  from  his  Majesty  to  Cowper,  105  to  107.  After  remaining 
at  Weston,  under  the  tender  Care  of  Lady  Hesketh,  till  July,  1795, 
Cowper  and  Mrs.  Unwin  remove  from  Weston  to  Norfolk,  under  tlis 
Conduct  of  his  Kinsman,  Mr.  Johnson — Stanzas  to  Mary,  the  last  Poem 
composed  by  Cowper  at  Weston,  108,  109.  Cowper  resides  at  North- 
Tuddenham — removes  to  Mundsley,  a  Village  on  the  Norfolk  Coast — 
removes  to  Dereham,  and  thence  to  Dunham-Lodge,  111  to  113.  Induced 
to  revise  liis  Homer,  1795 — in  September  visits  Mundsley  again — in  Oc- 
tober returns  to  Dereham,  and  settles  there  for  the  Winter,  114.  Gra- 
dual Decline  and  Death  of  Mrs.  Unwin,  114.  Cowper's  Solicitude  on 
tltt  last  Morning  oi"  ha  J-iic— Jwr  Fungral  iu  Dcxvliivm,  ajtd  Tablet  to- 


Nov. 

4,  1793 

89 

Nov. 

5,  1793 

91 

Nov. 

24,  1793 

92 

Nov. 

29,  1793 

93 

Dec. 

8,  1793 

94 

Dec. 

8,  1793 

95 

yiii  CONTENTS. 

her  Memory,  115.  The  obstinate  Malady  of  Cowper — fruitless  Endea- 
vours to  cheer  his  dejected  Spirit — infinite  Merit  of  Mr.  Johnson,  in  his 
Care  to  mitigate  the  Calamity  of  his  revered  Relation — Cowper  receives 
a  Visit  from  the  Dowager  Lady  Spencer,  115  to  118.  Mr.  Johnson 
reads  to  him  his  printed  and  his  Manuscript  Poems — Cowper  writes  to 
Lady  Hesketh,  and  receives  a  Visit  from  Sir  John  Throckmorton,  119. 
Finishes  the  Revisal  of  his  Homer,  March,  1799 — resumes  and  quits 
his  Poem  on  the  four  Ages — composes  a  Latin  Poem — his  last  original 
English  Poem,  the  Cast-away,  119,  120.  Removes  to  a  larger  House 
in  Dereham — translates  various  Latin  and  Greek  Verses,  and  some 
Fables  of  Gay  into  Latin  Verse — sends  an  improved  Version  of  a 
Passage  in  his  Homer  to  his  Friend  of  Eartham,  122.  His  Health 
becomes  more  impaired — receives  a  Visit  from  Mr.  Rose  in  March- 
declines,  and  dies  on  Friday,  the  25th  of  April — buried,  on  the  od  of 
May,  in  the  Church  of  Dereham,  123,  124.  His  Character,  and  Re- 
marks on  his  Poetry,  124  to  163.     Postscript,  163. 


APPENDIX. 

No.  1     Original  Poems  P<Jge  165 

2  Translations  of  Greek  Verses  174 

3  Translations  from  Horace  and  Virgil  186 

4  Translations  from  various  Latin  Poems  of  Vincent  Bourne, 

and  a  few  Epigrams  of  Owen  201 

5  Montes  Glaciales,  in  Oceano  Germanico  natantes,  with  a 

Translation  224 

6  Verses,  English  and  Latin,  to  the  Memory  of  Dr,  Lloyd         227 

7  Translations  from  the  Fables  of  Gay  229 

8  The  Connoisseur,  No.  119  233 

134  237 

138  240 

Motto  on  a  Clock  245 

Conclusion  246,  247 


THE 

LIFE  OF  COWPER, 

PART  THE  THIRD. 


Xenopkon. 


JL  HE  active  and  powerful  mind  of  Cowper  wanted  no  long  inter- 
val of  rest  after  finishing  the  work  of  five  laborious  years.  On 
the  contrary,  he  very  soon  began  to  feel  that  regular  hours  of 
mental  exertion  were  essentially  requisite  to  his  comfort  and  wel- 
fare. 

That  extraordinary  proficient  in  the  knowledge  of  human  na- 
ture, Lord  Bacon,  has  inserted  in  his  list  of  articles  conducive  to 
health,  (for  his  own  use)  one  article,  that  may  appear,  at  first 
Bight,  little  suited  to  such  a  purpose — "  heroic  desires !"  If  we  un- 
derstand by  this  expression  what  he  probably  intended,  a  constant 
inclination  and  care  to  employ  our  faculties  fervently  and  steadily 
on  some  grand  object  of  laudalile  pursuit,  perhaps  the  whole  Ma^ 
teria  Mcdica  could  have  fiirnished  him  with  nothing  so  likely  to 
pi-omote  the  preservation  of  health;  especially  in  a  frame  distin- 
guished by  nerves  of  the  most  delicate  and  dangerous  sensibility. 

Cowper  was  himself  aware  of  this  truth,  and  he  was  looking 
deliberately  around  him  for  some  new  literary  object  of  magnitude 
and  importance,  when  his  thoughts  were  directed  to  Milton,  by  an 
unexpected  application  from  the  literary  merchant  with  whom  he 
had  corresponded,  occasionally,  for  some  years;  and  with  whom 
his  acquaintance,  though  confined  to  letters  of  business,  had  ri- 
pened into  a  cordial  esteem. 

The  great  author  of  the  Rambler  (intimately  acquainted  with 
all  the  troubles  tliat  are  too  apt  to  attend  the  votaries  of  literature) 
has  said,  "  that  a  bookseller  is  the  only  Mxcenas  of  the  modern 
world."  Without  assenting  to  all  the  eulogy  and  all  the  satire  im- 
plied in  this  remarkable  sentiment,  we  may  take  a  pleasure  in  ob- 

VOL,  ir.  B 


2  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

serving,  that  in  the  class  of  men  so  magnificently  and  sportively 
commended,  there  are  several  individuals,  each  of  whom  a  writer" 
of  the  most  delicate  manners  and  exalted  mind  may  justly  esteem 
as  a  pleasing  associate,  and  as  a  liberal  friend. 

In  this  light  Cowper  regarded  his  bookseller,  Mr.  Johnson,  to 
■whom  he  had  literally  given  the  two  volumes  of  his  poems,  with 
that  modest  and  generous  simplicity  of  spirit  which  formed  a  strik- 
ing part  of  his  character.  He  entertained  no  presumptuous  ideas 
of  their  pecuniary  value ;  and  when  the  just  applause  of  the  world 
had  sufficiently  proved  it,  he  nobly  declined  the  idea  of  resuming 
a  gift,  which  the  probity  of  his  merchant  would  have  allowed  him 
to  recall.  He  was,  however,  so  pleased  by  this,  and  by  subsequent 
proofs  of  liberality  in  the  conduct  of  Mr^  Johnson,  that  on  being 
solicited  by  him  to  embark  in  the  adventure  of  preparing  a  magni- 
ficent edition  of  Milton,  he  readily  entered  into  the  project ;  and 
began  those  admirable  translations  from  the  Latin  and  Italian  poetry 
of  Milton,  which  I  have  formerly  mentioned  in  print,  and  to 
which  I  hope  to  render  more  justice,  by  a  plan  of  devoting  them 
to  the  purpose  of  raising  a  monument  to  their  author:  a  plan 
upon  which  I  shall  apply  to  the  favour  of  the  public  in  the  close  of 
these  volumes. 

As  it  is  to  Milton  that  I  am  hi  a  great  measure  indebted  for 
what  I  must  ever  regard  as  a  signal  blessing,  the  friendship  of  Cow- 
per, the  reader  will  pardon  me  for  dwelling  a  little  on  the  cir- 
cumstances that  produced  it :  circumstances  which  often  lead  me 
to  repeat  those  sweet  verses  of  my  friend  on  the  casual  original  of 
©ur  most  valuable  attachments : 

Mysterious  are  his  ways,  v/hose  power 
Brings  forth  that  unexpected  hour. 
When  minds,  that  never  met  before. 
Shall  meet,  unite,  and  part  no  more : 
It  is  th'  aUotment  of  the  skies, 
The  hand  of  the  supremely  wise. 
That  guides  and  governs  our  affections. 
And  plans  and  orders  our  connections. 

These  charming  verses  strike  with  peculiar  force  on  my  hearty 
■when  I  recollect  that  it  was  an  idle  endeavour  to  make  us  ene- 
mies which  gave  rise  to  our  intimacy,  and  that  I  was  providentially 
conducted  to  Weston  at  a  season  when  my  presence  there  afforded 
pecuUar  comfort  to  my  affectionate  friend,  under  the  pressure  of  a 
domestic  affliction,  which  threatened  to  overv.hclm  his  very  lea- 
der spirits. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  S 

The  entreaty  of  many  persons,  whom  I  wished  to  oblige,  had 
engaged  me  to  write  a  life  of  Milton,  before  I  had  the  slightest 
suspicion  that  my  work  could  interfere  Avith  the  projects  of  any 
man ;  but  I  was  soon  sui'prised  and  concerned  in  hearing  that  I  was 
represented  in  a  news-paper,  as  an  antagonist  of  Cowper. 

I  immediately  wrote  to  him  on  the  subject,  and  our  correspond- 
ence soon  endeared  us  to  each  other  in  no  common  degree.  The 
series  of  his  letters  to  me  I  value  not  only  as  memorials  of  a  most 
dear  and  honourable  friendship,  but  as  exquisite  examples  of  epis- 
tolary excellence.  My  pride  inight  assuredly  be  gratified  by  insert- 
ing them  all,  as  I  have  been  requested  to  do,  in  this  publication;^ 
but,  I  trust,  I  am  influenced  by  a  proper  sense  of  duty  towards 
niv  dear  departed  friend,  in  withholding  them,  at  present,  fi'om 
the  eye  of  the  public.  The  truth  is,  I  feel  that  the  extreme  sensi- 
bility of  my  affectionate  correspondent  led  him,  very  frequently, 
to  speak  of  me  in  such  terms  of  tender  partiality,  that  the  world 
must  not  be  expected  to  forgive  him  for  so  over-rating  even  the 
merit  of  a  friend,  till  that  friend  is  sharing  with  him  the  hallowed 
rest  of  the  grave.  In  the  mean  time  my  readers,  I  hope,  will  ap- 
prove my  confining  myself  to  such  a  selection  from  them,  as  ap- 
pears to  me  necessary  for  the  completion  of  this  narrative;  which 
I  seize  every  opportunity  of  embellishing  with  numerous  letters  to 
his  other  correspondents. 

It  is  time  to  resume  the  series  of  such  letters ;  and  in  doing  so 
I  embrace,  Avith  a  melancholy  gratification,  an  opportunity  of  pay- 
ing tender  respect  to  the  memory  of  a  scholar  and  a  poet,  who,  in. 
1791,  solicited  and  obtained  the  regard  of  Cowper,  and  saw  him, 
for  the  first  time,  at  Eartham,  in  the  following  year. — I  speak  of 
the  late  professor  of  poetry,  the  Reverend  James  Hui'dis ;  a  man 
whose  death  must  be  lamented  as  peculiai'ly  unseasonable,  did  not 
piety  suggest  to  the  persons  most  deeply  afflicted  by  a  loss  so  little 
expected,  that  it  is  irrational  and  irreligious  to  repine  at  those  de- 
crees of  heaven  which  summon  to  early  beatitude  the  most  desei'v- 
ing  of  its  servants.  As  this  exemplary  divine  was  tenderly  idol- 
ized by  several  accomplished  sisters,  it  may  be  hoped  that  his  col- 
lected works  will  be  republislied  by  some  member  of  his  family, 
with  a  memorial  of  the  learned,  elegant,  and  moral  writer,  adapt- 
ed to  the  extent  and  variety  of  his  merit.  My  intercourse  with 
him  Avas  brief  indeed,  but  terminated  with  expressions  of  kindness, 
when  every  kind  syllable  derives  an  afFectmg  power,  from  the  ap- 
proach of  death.  I  had  applied  to  him,  requesting  the  sight  of  let- 
ters that  I  knew  he  had  been  long  in  the  habit  of  receiving  from 
Cowper:  my  application,  to  my  surprise  and  concern,  found  him 
sinking  into  a  fatal  illness  ;  but  he  kindly  intimated  to  a  beloved 


4  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

sister  a  wish  to  comply  with  my  request.  To  the  fidelity  of  her 
affection  towards  a  deserving  brother  I  am  indebted  for  the  papers 
which  I  wished  to  see ;  and  from  which  I  haA-e  made  such  a  selec- 
tion as  I  deem  most  consistent  with  the  i-egard  I  owe  to  both  the 
departed  poets, — Their  reciprocal  esteem  will  reflect  honour  on 
both ;  and  it  is  particularly  pleasing  to  observe  the  candid  and  li- 
bei-al  spirit  with  which  Cowper  attended  to  the  wishes  and  encou- 
raged the  exertions  of  a  young  and  modest  writer,  who  was  justly 
ambitious  of  his  applause. 

The  date  of  his  first  letter  to  the  author  of  the  Village  Curate 
appears  to  claim  an  earlier  place  in  this  work  j  but  a  variety  of 
circumstances  conspired  to  fix  it  here. 


LETTER  I. 
To  the  Reverend  Mr.  HURDIS. 

TVesto?i,  March  6,  1791^ 
Sir, 

I  have  always  entertained,  and  have  oc- 
casionally avowed  a  great  degree  of  respect  for  the  abilities  of  the 
^xnknown  author  of  the  Village  Curate — unknown  at  that  time,  but 
now  well  known,  and  not  to  me  only,  but  to  many.  For  before  I 
was  favoured  with  your  obliging  letter  I  knew  your  name,  your 
place  of  abode,  your  profession,  and  that  you  had  four  sisters ;  all 
which  I  learned  neither  from  our  bookseller,  nor  from  any  of  his 
connections :  you  will  perceive,  therefore,  that  you  are  no  longer 
an  author  incognito.  The  writer,  indeed,  of  many  passages  that 
have  fallen  from  your  pen  could  not  long  continue  so.  Let  genius, 
true  genius,  conceal  itself  where  it  may,  we  may  say  of  it,  as  the 
young  man  in  Terence  of  his  beautiful  mistress — "  diu  latere  non 
potest." 

I  am  obliged  to  you  for  your  kind  offers  of  service,  and  will  not 
say  that  I  shall  not  be  troublesome  to  you  hereafter ;  but  at  present 
I  have  no  need  to  be  so.  I  have,  within  these  two  days,  given  the 
very  last  stroke  of  my  pen  to  my  long  translation,  and  what  will 
be  my  next  career  I  know  not.  At  any  rate,  v/e  shall  not,  I  hope, 
hereafter  be  known  to  each  other  as  poets  only ;  for  your  writings 
have  made  me  ambitious  of  a  nearer  approach  to  you.  Your  door, 
however,  will  never  be  opened  to  me.  My  fate  and  fortune  \ya\c 
combined  with  natural  dispositioii,  to  draw  a  circle  round  me 
which  I  cannot  pass ;  nor  have  I  been  more  than  thirteesi  miles 
from  home  these  twenty  years,  and  so  far  very  seldom.  But  you 
are  a  younger  man,  and  therefore  may  not  be  quite  so  immoveable: 
in  which  case,  should  you  choose  at  any  time  to  mo-\e  ^Veston- 


LIFE  OF  COWPRR.  9 

■ward,  you  will  always  find  me  liaj)py  to  receive  }'on.  And  in  the 
mean  time  I  remain,  with  much  respect,  your  most  obedient  ser- 
vant, critic,  and  friend, 

W.  C. 
P.  S.   I  wish  to  know  what  you  mean  to  do  with  Sir  Tliomas.* 
For  though  I  expressed  doubts  about  his  theatrical  possibilities,  I 
think  him  a  very  respectable  person,  and,  wiih  some  improvement, 
ivell  Avorthy  of  being  introduced  to  the  public. 


LETTER  II. 

To  the  Reverend  Mr.  HURDIS. 

H'cstoTi,  June  13,  1791, 
My  dear  Sir, 

I  ougb.t  to  have  thanked  you  for  your 
agreeable  and  entertaining  letter  much  sooner ;  but  I  have  many 
correspondents  who  will  not  be  said,  nay  ;  and  have  been  obliged, 
of  late,  to  give  my  last  attentions  to  Homer  :  the  very  last  indeed, 
for  yesterday  I  dispatched  to  town,  after  revising  them  carefully, 
the  proof-sheets  of  subscribers'  names ;  among  Avhich  I  took  special 
notice  of  yours,  and  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  it.  We  have  con- 
trived, or  rather  my  bookseller  and  printer  have  contrived,  (for 
they  have  never  waited  a  moment  for  me)  to  publish  as  critically 
at  the  wrong  time,  as  if  my  whole  interest  and  success  had  de- 
pended on  it.  March,  April,  and  May,  said  Johnson  to  me  in  a 
letter  that  I  received  from  him  in  February,  are  the  best  months 
for  publication.  Therefore^  now  it  is  determined  that  Homer  shall 
come  out  on  the  first  of  July,  that  is  to  say,  exactly  at  the  moment 
when,  except  a  few  lawyers,  not  a  creature  will  be  left  in  town 
who  will  ever  care  one  farthing  about  him.  To  which  of  these  two 
friends  of  mine  I  ani  indebted  for  this  management,  I  know  not. 
It  does  ROt  please,  but  I  would  be  a  philosopher  as  well  as  a  poet, 
and  therefore  make  no  complaint  or  grumble  at  all  about  it.  You, 
I  presume,  have  had  dealings  with  them  both — how  did  they  ma- 
nage for  you  ?  And  if  as  they  have  for  me,  how  did  you  behave  under 
it?  Some  who  love  me  complain  that  I  am  too  passive;  and  I 
should  be  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  justify  myself  by  your  ex- 
ample. The  fact  is,  should  I  thunder  ever  so  loud,  no  efforts  of 
that  sort  will  avail  me  now ;  thei-efore,  like  a  good  economist  of 
my  l)olts,  I  choose  to  reserve  them  for  more  profitable  occasions. 

I  am  glad  to  find  that  your  amusements  have  been  so  similar  to 
mine,  for  in  this  instance,  too,  I  seemed  to  have  need  of  somebody  to 

•  Sir  Thoma',  More,  a  Tragedy. 


6  LIFE  OF  COVVPER. 

keep  mc  In  countenance,  especially  in  my  attention  and  attach* 
ment  to  aninnals.  All  the  notice  that  we  lords  of  the  creation 
vouchsafe  to  bestow  on  the  creatures,  is  generally  to  abuse  them ; 
It  is  well,  therefore,  that  here  and  there  a  man  should  be  found  a 
little  womanish,  or  perhaps  a  little  childish  in  this  matter,  who 
"will  make  some  amends,  by  kissing  and  coaxing,  and  laying  them 
in  one's  bosom.  You  remember  the  little  ewe  lamb  mentioned  by 
the  Prophet  Nathan :  the  Prophet,  perhaps,  invented  the  tale  for 
the  sake  of  its  application  to  David's  conscience ;  but  it  is  more 
probable  that  God  inspired  him  with  it  for  that  purpose.  If  he 
did,  it  amounts  to  a  proof  that  he  does  not  overlook,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  much  notices  such  little  partialities  and  kindnesses  to  his 
dumb  creatures,  as  we,  because  we  articulate,  are  pleased  to  call 
them. 

Your  sisters  are  fitter  to  judge  than  I,  v\'hether  assembly-rooms 
are  the  places,  of  all  others,  in  which  the  ladies  may  be  studied  to 
most  advantage.  I  am  an  old  fellow,  but  I  had  once  my  dancing 
days,  as  you  have  now  ;  yet  I  could  never  find  that  I  learned  half 
so  much  of  a  woman's  real  character  by  dancing  with  her,  as  by 
conversing  with  her  at  home,  where  I  could  observe  her  behaviour 
at  the  table,  at  the  fire-side,  and  in  all  the  trying  circumstances 
of  domestic  life.  We  are  all  good  when  we  ai-e  pleased,  but  she 
is  the  good  woman  who  wants  not  a  fiddle  to  sweeten  her.  If  I  am 
wrong,  the  young  ladies  will  set  me  right:  in  the  mean  time  I  will 
not  teaze  you  witli  graver  arguments  on  tlie  subject,  especially  as 
I  have  a  hope,  tliat  years,  and  the  study  of  the  scripture,  and  His 
Spirit  whose  word  it  is,  will,  in  due  time,  bring  you  to  my  way 
of  thinking.  I  am  not  one  of  those  sages  who  require  that  young 
men  should  be  as  old  as  themselves,  before  they  have  had  time 
to  be  so. 

With  my  love  to  your  fair  sisters,  I  remain,  dear  Sir,  yours 
truljr,  W.  C. 


LETTER  III. 
To  the  Reverend  Mr.  HURDIS. 

JVeston,  August  9,  ir91. 
My  dear  Sir, 

I  never  make  a  correspondent  wait  for 
an  answer  through  idleness  or  want  of  proper  i-espect  for  him; 
but  if  I  am  silent,  it  is  because  I  am  busy,  or  not  well,  or  because 
I  stay  till  something  occur  that  may  make  my  letter  at  least  a  little 
better  than  mere  blank  paj^er.    I  therefore  write  speedily  in  reply 


LIFE  OF  COW'PER.  7 

to  yours,  being,  at  present,  neither  much  occupied,  nor  at  all  in- 
disposed, nor  forbidden  by  a  dearth  of  materials. 

I  wish  always,  when  I  have  a  new  piece  in  hand,  to  be  as  secret 
as  you,  and  there  was  a  time  when  I  could  be  so.  Then  I  lived 
the  life  of  a  solitary,  was  not  visited  by  a  single  neighbour,  because 
I  had  none  with  whom  I  could  associate ;  nor  ever  had  an  inmate. 
This  was  when  I  dwelt  at  Ohiey ;  but  since  I  have  removed  to 
Weston  the  case  is  different.  Here  I  am  visited  by  all  around  me, 
and  study  in  a  room  exposed  to  all  manner  of  inroads.  It  is  on  the 
ground  floor,  the  room  in  which  we  dine,  and  in  which  I  am  sure 
to  be  found  by  all  who  seek  me.  They  find  me  generally  at  my 
desk,  and  with  my  work,  whatever  it  be,  before  me,  unless  per- 
haps I  have  conjured  it  into  its  hiding-place  before  they  have  had 
time  to  enter.  This,  however,  is  not  always  the  case,  and,  con- 
sequently, sooner  or  later,  I  cannot  fail  to  be  detected.  Possibly 
you,  who,  I  suppose,  have  a  snug  study,  would  find  it  impracti- 
cable to  attend  to  any  thing  closely  in  an  apartment  exposed  as 
mine ;  but  use  has  made  it  familiar  to  me,  and  so  familiar,  that 
neither  servants  going  and  coming  disconcert  me  ;  nor  even  if  a 
ladj ,  with  an  oblique  glance  of  her  eye,  catches  two  or  three  lines 
of  my  MSS.  do  I  feel  myself  inclined  to  blush,  though  naturally 
the  shyest  of  mankind. 

You  did  well,  I  believe,  to  cashier  the  subject  of  which  you  give 
me  a  recital.  It  certainly  wants  those  agreements  which  are  ne- 
cessary to  the  Success  of  any  subject  in  verse.  It  is  a  curious  story, 
and  so  far  as  the  poor  young  lady  was  concerned,  a  very  affecting 
one ;  but  there  is  a  coarseness  in  the  character  of  the  hero  that 
would  have  spoiled  all.  In  fact,  I  find  it  myself  a  much  easiei- 
matter  to  write  than  to  get  a  convenient  theme  to  write  on. 

I  am  ol)ligcd  to  you  for  comparing  me,  as  you  go,  both  with  Pope 
and  with  Homer.  It  is  impossible,  m  any  other  way  of  manage- 
ment, to  know  whether  the  translation  be  well  executed  or  not,  and 
if  well,  in  what  degree.  It  was  in  the  course  of  such  a  process 
that  I  first  became  dissatisfied  with  Pope.  More  than  thirty  years 
since,  and  when  I  was  a  young  templar,  I  accompanied  him  with 
his  original,  line  by  line,  through  both  poems.  A  fellow  student 
of  mine,  a  person  of  fine  classic  taste,  joined  himself  with  me  in 
the  labour.  We  were  neither  of  us,  as  you  may  imagine,  very 
diligent  in  our  proper  business. 

I  shall  be  glad  if  my  Reviewers,  whosoever  they  may  l)e,  will  be 
at  the  pains  to  ix-ad  me  as  you  do ;  I  want  no  praise  that  I  am  not 
entitled  to,  but  of  that  to  which  1  am  entitled  I  should  be  loth  to 
lose  a  little,  having  worked  hard  to  earn  it. 

I  would  heartily  second  the.  Bishop  of  Salisbury,  in  recommend- 


8  LIFE  OF  COWPER, 

ing  to  you  a  close  pursuit  of  your  Hebrew  studies,  were  it  uot  that 
I  wish  you  to  publish  what  I  may  understand.  Do  botli,  and  I 
shall  be  satisfied. 

Your  remarks,  if  I  may  but  receive  them  soon  enough  to  serve 
me  in  case  of  a  new  edition,  will  be  extremely  welcome. 

vv.  c. 


LETTER   IV. 
To  JOHN  JOHNSON,  Esquire. 

Weston,  August  9,  1791, 
My  dearest  Johnny, 

The  little  that  I  have  heard  about  Ho- 
mer myself  has  been  equally,  or  more  flattering  than  Dr. ^'s 

intelligence,  so  that  I  have  good  reason  to  hope  that  I  have  not 
studied  the  old  Grecian,  and  how  to  dress  him,  so  long  and  so  in- 
tensely to  no  purpose.  At  present  I  am  idle,  both  on  account  of 
my  eyes,  and  because  I  know  not  to  what  to  attach  myself  in  par- 
ticular. Many  different  plans  and  pi'ojects  are  recommended  to 
me.  Some  caU  aloud  for  original  verse,  others  for  more  translation, 
and  others  for  other  things.  Providence,  I  hope,  will  direct  me  ia 
my  choice,  for  other  guide  I  have  none,  nor  wish  for  another. 
God  bless  you,  my  dearest  Johnny. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  V. 

To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

The  Lodge,  Sept.  14,  1791. 
My  dear  Friend, 

Wlioever  reviews  me  will,  in  fact,  have 
a  laborious  task  of  it,  in  the  performance  of  which  he  ought  to 
move  leisurely,  and  to  exercise  much  critical  discernment.  In  the 
mean  time,  my  courage  is  kept  up  by  the  arrival  of  such  testimo- 
nies in  my  favour,  as  give  me  the  greatest  pleasure ;  coming 
from  quarters  the  most  respectable.  I  have  reason,  therefore,  to 
hope,  that  our  periodical  judges  will  not  be  very  adverse  to  me, 
and  that  pei'liaps  they  may  even  favour  me.  If  one  man  of  taste 
and  letters  is  pleased,  another  man,  so  qualified,  can  hai'dly  be  dis- 
pleased; and  if  critics  of  a  different  description  grumble,  they 
■^ill  not,  however,  materially  hurt  me. 

J,  You,  who  know  hoAV  necessary  it  is  to  me  to  be  employed,  will 
be  glad  to  hear  that  I  have  been  called  to  a  new  literary  engage- 
ment^ and  that  I  have  not  refused  it.    A  Milton  that  is  to  rival, 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  9 

^lul,  if  possible,  to  exceed  in  splendour  Boydell's  Shakspeare,  is 
ill  contenipletion,  and  I  am  in  the  editor's  office.  Fuscli  is  the 
painter.  My  business  will  be  to  select  notes  from  others,  and 
to  write  original  notes;  to  translate  the  Latin  and  Italian  poems, 
and  to  give  a  correct  text.  I  shall  have  years  allowed  me  to  do 
it  in. 


LETTER  VI. 
To  JOHN  JOHNSON,  Esquire. 

Weston,  Oct.  31,  llr9l. 
My  dear  Johnny, 

Your  kind  and  affectionate  letter  well 
deserves  my  thanks,  and  should  have  had  them  long  ago,  had  I 
not  been  obliged  lately  to  give  my  attention  to  a  mountain  of  un- 
answered letters,  which  I  have  just  now  reduced  to  a  mole-hill: 
yours  lay  at  the  bottom,  and  I  have  at  last  worked  my  way  dowa 
to  it. 

It  gives  me  great  pleasure  that  you  have  found  a  house  to  your 
minds.  May  you  all  three  be  happier  in  it  than  the  happiest  that 
ever  occupied  it  before  you  !  But  my  chief  delight  of  all  is  to  leara 
that  you  and  Kitty  are  so  completely  cured  of  your  long  and 
threatening  maladies.  I  always  thought  highly  of  Dr.  Kerr, 
but  his  extraordinary  success  in  your  two  instances  has  even  in- 
spired me  with  an  affection  for  him. 

My  eyes  are  much  better  than  when  I  wrote  last,  though  seldom 
perfectly  well  many  days  together.  At  this  season  of  the  year  I 
catch  perpetual  colds,  and  shall  continue  to  do  so  till  I  have  got  the 
better  of  that  tenderness  of  habit  with  which  the  summer  never 
fails  to  affect  me. 

I  am  glad  that  you  have  heard  well  of  my  work  in  your  country,' 
Sufficient  proofs  have  reached  me,  from  various  quarters,  that  I 
have  not  ploughed  the  field  of  Troy  in  vain. 

Were  you  here,  I  would  gratify  you  with  an  enumeration  of 
particulars  ;  but  since  you  are  not,  it  must  content  you  to  be  told 
that  I  have  every  reason  to  be  satisfied. 

Mrs.  Unwin,  I  think,  in  her  letter  to  cousin  Balls,  made  men- 
tion of  my  new  engagement.  I  have  just  entered  on  it,  and  there- 
fore can,  at  present,  say  little  about  it. 

It  is  a  very  creditable  one  in  itself,  and  may  I  but  acquit  myself 
of  it  with  sufficiency,  it  will  do  me  honour.  The  commentator's 
part,  however,  is  a  new  one  to  me,  and  one  that  I  little  thought  \fi 
appear  in. 

roL.  II,  c- 


10  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

Remember  your  promise  that  I  shall  see  you  in  the  spring. 
The  Hall  has  been  full  of  company  ever  since  you  went,  and  at 
present  my  Catharina  is  there  singing  and  playing  like  an  angel. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  Vn. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esquire. 

Mv.  14,  1/91. 
My  DEAR  Friend, 

I  have  waited  and  wished  for  your  opi- 
nion with  the  feelings  that  belong  to  the  value  I  have  for  it,  and  am 
very  happy  to  find  it  so  favourable.  In  my  table-drawer  I  treasure 
up  a  bundle  of  suffrages,  sent  me  by  those  of  whose  approbation  I 
was  most  ambitious,  and  shall  presently  insert  yours  among  them. 

I  know  not  why  we  should  quarrel  with  compound  epithets :  it 
is  certain,  at  least,  the)^  are  as  agreeable  to  the  genius  of  our  lan- 
guage as  to  that  of  the  Greek,  v/hich  is  sufficiently  proved  by 
their  being  admitted  into  our  common  and  colloquial  dialect. 
Black-eyed,  nut-brown,  crook-shank 'd,  hump-back'd,  are  all  com- 
pound epithets,  and,  together  with  a  thousand  other  such,  are  used 
continually,  even  by  those  who  profess  a  dislike  to  such  combina- 
tions in  poetry.  Why,  then,  do  they  treat  with  so  much  familiarity 
a  thing  that  they  say  disgusts  them  ?  I  doubt  if  they  could  give 
this  question  a  reasonable  answer ;  unless  they  should  answer  it  by 
confessing  themselves  unreasonable. 

I  have  made  a  considerable  progress  in  tlie  translation  of  Mil- 
ton's Latin  poems.  I  give  them,  as  opportunity  offers,  all  the  va- 
riety of  measure  that  I  can.  Some  I  render  in  heroic  rhyme, 
some  in  stanzas,  some  in  seven,  and  some  in  eight  syllable  mea- 
sure, and  some  in  blank  verse.  They  will  altogether,  I  hope, 
make  an  agreeable  miscellany  for  the  English  reader.  They  are 
certainly  good  in  themselves,  and  cannot  fail  to  please,  but  by  the 
fault  of  their  translator. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  Vm. 

To  the  Reverend  Mr.  HURDIS. 

West 071,  Dec.  10,  1791. 
My  dear  Sir, 

I  am  obliged  to  you  for  wishing  that  I 
were  employed  in  some  original  work  rather  than  in  translation. 
To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  of  your  mind ;  and  vmless  I  could  find 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  It 

another  Homer,  I  shall  promise,  I  believe,  and  vow,  when  I  have 
done  with  Milton,  never  to  translate  again.  But  my  veneration 
for  our  great  countryman  is  equal  to  what  I  feel  for  the  Grecian; 
and,  consequently,  I  am  liappy,  and  feel  myself  honourably  em- 
ployed whatever  I  do  for  Milton.  I  am  now  translating  his  Ejii- 
tajihium  Damonis,  a  pastoral,  in  my  judgment,  equal  to  any  of 
Virgil's  Bucolics,  but  of  which  Dr.  Johnson  (so  it  pleased  him) 
speaks,  as  I  remember,  contemptuously.  But  he  who  never  saw 
any  beauty  in  a  rural  scene  was  not  likely  to  have  much  taste  for 
a  pastoral.     In  fiace  qidescat. 

I  was  charmed  with  your  friendly  offer  to  be  my  advocate  with 
the  public :  should  I  want  one,  I  know  not  where  I  could  find  a 
better.  The  reviewer  in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  grows  more 
and  more  civil.  Should  he  continue  to  sweeten  at  this  rate,  as  he 
proceeds,  I  know  not  what  will  become  of  all  the  little  modesty  I 
have  left.  I  have  availed  myself  of  some  of  his  strictures,  for  I 
wish  to  learn  from  every  body.  W.  C. 


LETTER  IX. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

Weston,  Dec.  21,  1791. 
My  dear  Friend, 

It  grieves  me,  after  having  indulged  a 
little  hope  that  I  might  see  you  in  the  holidays,  to  be  obliged  to 
disappoint  myself.  The  occasion,  too,  is  such  as  will  ensure  me  your 
sympathy. 

On  Saturday  last,  while  I  was  at  my  desk  near  the  window, 
and  Mrs.  Unwin  at  the  fire-side  opposite  to  it,  I  heard  her  sud- 
denly exclaim,  "Oh!  Mr.  Cowper,  don't  let  me  fall!"  I  turned 
and  saw  her  actually  falling,  together  with  her  chair,  and  started 
to  her  side  just  in  time  to  prevent  her.  She  was  seized  with  a  vio- 
lent giddiness,  which  lasted,  though  with  some  abatement,  the  whole 
day,  and  was  attended  too  with  some  other  very,  very  alarming 
rsymptoms.  At  present,  however,  she  is  relieved  from  the  vertigo, 
and  seems  in  all  respects  better. 

She  has  been  my  faithful  and  affectionate  nurse  for  many  years, 
and  consequently  lias  a  claim  on  all  my  attentions.  She  has  them, 
and  will  have  them  as  long  as  she  wants  them,  which  will  proba- 
bly be,  at  the  best,  a  considerable  time  to  come.  I  feel  the  shock, 
as  you  may  suppose,  in  every  nerve.  God  grant  that  there  may 
be  no  repetition  of  it.  Another  such  a  stroke  upon  her  would,  I 
tliink,  overset  me  completelv;  but  at  present  I  hold  up  bravely. 

W.  C. 


1?  LIFE  OF  COWPER, 


LETTER  X. 

To  the  Reverend  Mr.  HLTIDIS. 

Weston,  Feb.  21,  1792, 
My  DEAR  Sir, 

My  obligations  to  you,  on  the  score  of  your 
kind  and  friendly  i-emarks,  demanded  from  me  a  much  more  ex- 
peditious acknowledgment  of  the  numerous  pacquets  that  con- 
tained them ;  but  I  have  been  hindered  by  many  causes,  each  of 
which  you  would  admit  as  a  sufficient  apology,  but  none  of  which 
I  will  mention,  lest  I  should  give  too  much  of  my  paper  to  the  sub- 
ject. My  acknowledgments  are  likewise  due  to  your  fair  sister, 
who  has  transcribed  so  many  sheets  in  so  neat  a  hand,  and  with  so 
much  accuracy. 

At  present  I  have  no  leisure  for  Homer,  but  shall  certainly  find 
leisure  to  examine  him,  with  a  reference  to  your  strictures,  before 
I  send  him  a  second  time  to  the  printer.  This  I  am  at  present  un- 
v/illing  to  do,  choosing  rather  to  wait,  if  that  may  be,  till  I  shall 
have  undergone  the  discipline  of  all  the  reviewers ;  none  of  whom 
have  yet  taken  me  in  hand,  tlie  Gentleman's  Magazine  excepted. 
By  several  of  his  remarks  I  have  been  benefited,  and  shall  no  doubt 
be  benefited  by  the  remarks  of  all, 

Milton  at  present  engrosses  me  altogether.  His  Latin  pieces  l 
have  translated,  and  have  begun  with  the  Italian.  These  are  few, 
and  will  not  detain  me  long.  I  shall  then  proceed  immediately  to. 
deliberate  upon,  and  to  settle  the  plan  of  my  commentary,  which 
I  have  hitherto  had  but  little  time  to  consider.  I  look  forward  to 
it,  for  this  reason,  with  some  anxiety.  I  trust,  at  least,  that  this 
anxiety  will  cease,  when  I  have  once  satisfied  myself  about  the  best 
manner  of  conducting  it.  But,  after  all,  I  seem  to  fear  more  the 
labour  to  which  it  calls  me,  than  any  great  difficulty  with  which 
it  is  likely  to  be  attended.  To  the  labours  of  versifying  I  have  no 
objection,  but  to  the  labours  of  criticism  I  am  new,  and  apprehend 
that  I  shall  find  them  wearisome.  Should  that  be  the  case,  I  shall 
be  dull,  and  must  be  contented  to  share  the  censure  of  being  so 
with  almost  all  the  commentators  that  have  ever  existed. 

I  have  expected,  but  not  wondered  that  I  have  not  received,  Sir 
Thomas  More,  and  the  other  MSS.  you  promised  me ;  because 
my  silence  has  been  such,  considering  how  loudly  I  was  called  upon 
to  write,  that  you  must  have  concluded  me  either  dead  or  dying^ 
and  did  not  choose,  perhaps,  to  trust  them  to  executors. 

W.  C. 


LIFE  OF  COVVPER.  U 


LETTER  XL 
To  the  Reverend  Mr.  HURDIS. 
Dear  Sir,  Weston,  March  2,  1792. 

I  have  this  moment  finished  a  compari- 
son of  your  remarks  with  my  text,  and  feel  so  sensibly  my  ob- 
ligations to  your  great  accuracy  and  kindness,  that  I  cannot  deny 
myself  the  pleasure  of  expressing  them  immediately.  I  only  wish 
that,  instead  of  revising  the  two  first  books  of  the  Iliad,  you  could 
have  found  leisure  to  revise  the  whole  two  poems,  sensible  how 
much  my  work  would  have  benefited. 

I  have  not  always  adopted  your  lines,  though  often,  perhaps,  at 
least,  as  good  as  my  own;  because  there  will  and  must  be  dissimi- 
larity of  manner  between  two  so  accustomed  to  the  pen  as  we  are. 
But  I  have  left  few  passages  go  unamended  which  you  seemed  to 
think  exceptionable ;  and  this  not  at  all  fi'om  complaisance :  for  in 
such  a  cause  I  would  not  sacrifice  an  iota  on  that  principle,  but  on 
clear  conviction. 

I  have  as  yet  heard  nothing  from  Johnson  about  the  two  MSS. 
you  announce,  but  feel  ashamed  that  I  should  want  your  letter  to 
remind  me  of  your  obliging  offer  to  inscribe  Sir  Thomas  More  to 
me,  should  you  resolve  to  publish  him.  Of  my  consent  to  such  a 
measure  you  need  not  doubt.  I  am  covetous  of  respect  and  honour 
from  all  such  as  you. 

Tame  hare,  at  present,  I  have  none.  But  to  make  amends,  I 
have  a  beautiful  little  spaniel  called  Beau,  to  whom  I  will  give  the 
kiss  your  sister  Sally  intended  for  the  former.  Unless  she  should 
command  me  to  bestow  it  elsewhere,  it  shall  attend  on  her  direc- 
tions. 

I  am  going  to  take  a  last  dinner  with  a  most  agreeable  family, 
who  have  been  my  only  neighbours  ever  since  I  have  lived  at 
Weston.  On  Monday  they  go  to  London,  and  in  the  summer  to  an 
estate  in  Oxfordshire,  which  is  to  be  their  home  in  future.  The 
occasion  is  not  at  all  a  pleasant  one  to  me,  nor  does  it  leave  mc 
spirits  to  add  more  than  that  I  am,  dear  Sir,  most  ti'uly  yours, 

\^'.  c. 


LETTER  XII. 
To  JOHN  JOHNSON,  Esquire. 

IVesion,  March  11,  1792. 
My  dkauest  Johnny, 

Vou  talk  of  ])rimroscs  that  you  pulled  on 
Candlemas  day;  but  what  think  you  of  me,  who  heard  a  Niiht- 


14  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

ingale  on  New-year's  day?  Perhaps  I  am  the  only  man  in  Eng* 
land  who  Can  boast  of  such  good  fortune :  good,  indeed  ;  for  if  it 
was  at  all  an  omen,  it  could  not  be  an  unfavourable  one.  The 
winter,  however,  is  now  making  himself  amends,  and  seems  the 
more  peevish  for  having  been  encroached  on  at  so  undue  a  season. 
Nothing  less  than  a  large  slice  out  of  the  spring  will  satisfy  him. 

Lady  Hesketh  left  us  yesterday.  She  intended,  indeed,  to  have 
left  us  four  days  sooner:  but  in  the  evening  before  the  day  fixed 
for  her  departure,  snow  enough  fell  to  occasion  just  so  much  delay 
of  it. 

We  have  faint  hopes  that  in  the  month  of  May  we  shall  see 
her  again.  I  know  that  you  have  had  a  letter  from  her,  and  you 
will  no  doubt  have  the  grace  not  to  make  her  wait  long  for  an 
answer. 

We  expect  Mr.  Rose  on  Tuesday ;  but  he  stays  with  us  only 
till  the  Saturday  following.  With  him  I  shall  have  some  confer- 
ences on  the  subject  of  Homer,  respecting  a  new  edition  I  mean, 
and  some  perhaps  on  the  subject  of  Milton ;  on  him  I  have  not  yet 
begun  to  comment,  or  even  fix  the  time  when  I  shall. 

Forget  not  your  promised  visit! 

W.  C* 


TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE, 

tV/iich  the  Author  heard  sing  07i  A^'eiv-Year's  Day^  1792. 

Whence  is  it,  that,  amaz'd,  I  hear, 

From  yonder  wither'd  spray, 
This  foremost  morn  of  all  the  year, 

The  melody  of  May  ? 

And  why,  since  thousands  would  be  proud 

Of  such  a  favour  shown, 
Am  I  selected  from  the  crowd, 

To  witness  it  alone  ? 

Sing'st  thou,  sweet  Philomel,  to  rne, 

For  that  I  also  long 
Have  practis'd  in  the  groves  like  thee, 

Though  not  like  thee  in  song? 


*  ynieby  the  Tjiitnr. — I  annex  to  this  lettfr   tlie  stanzas  tliat  CoWjicr  comprised  on  ff-^i 
•;\ oiidcl'fu!  incident  beie  mentioned. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  1^ 

Or  sing'st  thou  rather  under  force 

Of  some  divme  command, 
Commission 'd  to  presage  a  course 

Of  happier  days  at  hand? 

Thrice  welcome,  then !  for  many  a  long 

And  joyous  year  have  I, 
As  thou  to-day,  put  forth  my  song 

Beneath  a  \vintry  sky. 

But  thee  no  wintry  skies  can  harm. 

Who  only  need'st  to  sing. 
To  make  ev'n  January  charm, 

And  ev'ry  season  Spring. 

LETTER  XIIL 
To  the  Reverend  Mr.  HURDIS. 

Weston,  March  23,  1792. 
Dear  Sir, 

I  have  read  your  play  carefully,  and  with 
great  pleasure  :  it  seems  now  to  be  a  performance  that  cannot  fail 
to  do  you  much  credit.  Yet,  unless  my  memory  deceives  me,  the 
scene  between  Cecilia  and  Heron  in  the  garden  has  lost  something 
that  pleased  me  much  when  I  saw  it  first;  and  I  am  not  sure 
that  you  have  not  likewise  obliterated  an  account  of  Sir  Thomas's 
execution,  that  I  found  very  pathetic.  It  would  be  strange  if,  in 
these  two  particulars,  I  should  seem  to  miss  what  never  existed  : 
you  will  presentl)"  know  whether  I  am  as  good  at  remembering 
what  I  never  saw,  as  I  am  at  forgetting  what  I  have  seen.  But  it 
I  am  right,  I  cannot  help  recommending  the  omitted  passages  to 
your  re-consideration.  If  the  play  were  designed  for  representa- 
tion, I  should  be  apt  to  think  Cecilia's  first  speech  rather  too  long, 
and  should  prefer  to  have  it  broken  into  dialogue,  by  an  interposi- 
tion now  and  then  from  one  of  her  sisters.  But  since  it  is  designed, 
as  I  understand,  for  the  closet  only,  that  objection  seems  of  no 
importance  ;  at  no  rate,  however,  would  I  expunge  it,  because  it 
is  botli  prettily  imagined,  and  elegantly  written. 

I  have  read  j^our  cursory  remarks,  and  am  much  pleased  both 
with  the  style  and  the  argument.  Whether  the  latter  be  new  or 
not  I  am  not  competent  to  judge :  if  it  be,  you  are  entitled  to  much 
praise  for  the  invention  of  it.  \\liere  other  data  are  wanting  to 
ascertain  the  time  when  an  author  of  many  pieces  wrote  each  in 
particular,  there  can  be  no  better  criterion  by  which  to  determine 


16  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

the  point,  than  the  more  or  less  proficiency  manifested  in  the 
composition.  Of  this  proficiency,  where  it  appears,  and  of  those 
plays  in  which  it  appears  not,  you  seem  to  me  to  have  judged  well 
and  truly;  and,  consequently,  I  approve  of  your  arrangement. 

I  attended,  as  you  desired  me,  in  reading  the  character  of  Ceci- 
lia, to  the  hint  you  gave  me  concerning  your  sister  Sally,  and  give 
you  joy  of  such  a  sister.  This,  however,  not  exclusively  of  the  rest, 
for  though  they  may  not  all  be  Cecilias,  I  have  a  strong  persuasion 
that  they  are  all  very  amiable. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  XIV. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge^  March  25,  1792. 
My  dearest  Coz  . 

Mr.  Rose's  longer  stay  than  he  at  first 
intended  was  the  occasion  of  the  longer  delay  of  my  answer  to 
your  note,  as  you  may  both  have  perceived  by  the  date  thereof,  and 
learned  from  his  information.  It  was  a  daily  trouble  to  me  to 
see  it  lying  in  the  window -seat,  while  I  knew  you  were  in  expecta- 
tion of  its  arrival.  By  this  time  I  presume  you  have  seen  him, 
and  have  seen  likewise  Mr.  Hayley's  friendly  letter  and  compli-. 
mentary  sonnet,  as  well  as  the  letter  of  the  honest  Quaker ;  all 
of  which,  at  least  the  two  former,  I  shall  be  glad  to  receive  again 
at  a  fair  opportunity.  Mr.  Hayley's  letter  slept  six  weeks  in 
Johnson's  custody.  It  was  necessary  I  should  answer  it  without 
delay,  and  accordingly  I  answered  it  tlie  very  evening  on  which  I 
received  it,  giving  him  to  understand,  among  other  things,  how 
much  vexation  the  bookseller's  folly  had  cost  me,  who  had  detained 
it  so  lon^ ;  especially  on  account  of  the  distress  that  I  know  it  must 
have  occasioned  to  him  also.  From  his  reply,  Avhich  the  return 
of  the  post  brought  me,  I  learn  that,  in  the  long  interval  of  my 
non-correspondence,  he  had  suffered  anxiety  and  mortification 
enough ;  so  much  that  I  dare  say  he  had  made  twenty  vows  never 
to  hazard  again  either  letter  or  compliment  to  an  unknown  author* 
What,  indeed,  could  he  imagine  less,  than  that  I  meant,  by  such  an 
obstinate  silence,  to  tell  liim  that  I  valued  neither  him  nor  his. 
praises,  nor  his  proffered  friendship  ;  in  short,  that  I  considered 
him  as  a  rival,  and  therefore,  like  a  true  author,  hated  and  despised 
Mm.  He  is  now,  however,  convinced  that  I  love  him,  as  indeed  I 
do ;  and  I  account  him  the  chief  acquisition  that  my  own  verse 
hAs  ever  procured  me.  Brute  should  I  be  if  I  did  not,  for  hQ 
promises  me  every  assistance  in  his  power. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  J? 

I  have  likewise  a  very  pleasing  letter  fi-om  Mr.  Park,  which  I 
wish  ycu  were  here  to  read ;  and  a  very  pleasing  poem  that  came 
inclosed  in  it  lor  my  revisal,  written  when  he  was  only  twenty  years 
of  age,  yet  wonderfully  well  written,  though  wanting  some  correc- 
tion. 

To  Mr.  Hurdis  I  return  Sir  Thomas  More  to-morrow,  having 
revised  it  a  second  time.  He  is  now  a  very  respectable  figure, 
and  will  do  my  friend,  who  gives  him  to  the  public  this  spring, 
considerable  credit. 

\V.  C, 


LET  FER  XV. 

To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

Marcfi  30,  1792. 
Mv  mornings,  ever  since  you  went,  have! 
been  given  to  my  correspondents:  this  morning  I  have  already 
written  a  long  letter  to  Mr.  Park,  giving  my  opinion  of  his  poem^ 
which  is  a  favourable  one.  I  forget  Avhether  I  showed  it  to  you 
when  you  were  here,  and  even  whether  I  had  then  received  iti 
He  has  genius  and  delicate  taste ;  and  if  he  wei'e  not  an  engraver^ 
might  be  one  of  our  first  hands  in  poetry. 

W.  C. 

LETTER  XVL 

To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

V/cston,  April  5^  1792. 
You  talk,  my  dear  friend,  as  John  Bun- 
yan  says,  like  one  who  has  the  egg-shell  still  upon  his  head.  You 
talk  of  tlie  mighty  favours  that  you  have  received  from  me,  and  for- 
get entirely  those  for  which  I  am  indebted  to  you ;  but  though  you 
fbi'get  them,  I  shall  not,  nor  ever  think  that  I  have  requited  you, 
so  long  as  any  opportunity  presents  itself  of  rendering  you  the 
smallest  service :  small,  indeed,  is  all  that  I  can  ever  hope  to 
render. 

You  now  perceive,  and  sensibly,  that  not  without  reason  I  com- 
plained, as  I  used  to  do,  of  tiiose  tiresome  rogues  the  printers.  Bless 
yourself  that  you  have  not  two  thick  quartos  to  bring  forth,  as  I 
had.  My  vexation  was  always  much  increased  by  this  reflection ; 
they  are  every  day,  and  all  day  long,  employed  in  printing  for 
somebody,  and  why  not  for  me  ?  This  was  adding  mortification 
to  disappointment,  so  that  1  often  lost  all  patience. 

The  suffrage  cf  Doctor  Robertson  makes  more  than  amends 
for  the  scurvy  jest  passed  upon  me  by  the  wag  unknown.     I  re» 

VpL.  II.  p 


IS  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

gard  him  not ;  nor,  except  for  about  two  moments  after  I  first 
heard  of  his  doings,  have  I  ever  regarded  him.  I  have  somewhere 
a  secret  enemy ;  I  know  not  for  what  cause  he  should  be  so ;  but 
he,  I  imagine,  supposes  that  he  has  a  cause  :  it  is  well,  howevei*, 
to  have  but  one ;  and  I  will  take  all  the  care  I  can  not  to  increase 
the  number. 

I  have  begun  my  notes,  and  am  playing  the  commentator  man- 
fully. The  worst  of  it  is  that  I  am  anticipated  in  almost  all  my 
opportunities  to  shine  by  those  who  have  gone  before  me. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  XVn. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

Weston,  Jjiril  6,  1792. 
Mr  DEAR  Friend, 

God  grant  that  this  friendship  of  ours 
may  be  a  comfort  to  us  all  the  rest  of  our  days :  in  a  world  where 
true  friendships  are  rarities,  and  especially  wh^re  suddenly  formed, 
they  are  apt  soon  to  terminate.  But,  as  I  said  before,  I  feel  a  dis- 
position of  heart  toward  you,  that  I  never  felt  for  one  whom  I  had 
never  seen ;  and  that  shall  prove  itself,  I  trust,  in  the  event,  a 
propitious  omen. 

********************    **** 

Horace  says  somewhere,  though  I  may  quote  it  amiss,  perhaps,. 
for  I  have  a  terrible  memory, 

Utrumque  nostrum  incrcdibili  jnodo 
Coiisentit  astriwi.-— 

*  *  *  Our  stars  coJiscnt,  at  least  have  had  an  influence  somewhat 
similar  in  another  and  more  important  article. *  *  * 

It  gives  me  the  sincerest  pleasure  that  I  may  hope  to  see  you 
at  Weston  ;  for  as  to  any  migrations  of  mine,  they  must,  I  fear, 
notwithstanding  the  joy  I  should  feel  in  being  a  guest  of  yours,  be 
still  considered  in  the  light  of  impossibilities.  Come  then,  my 
friend,  and  be  as  welcome,  as  the  country  people  say  here,  as  the 
flowers  in  May.  I  am  happy,  as  I  say,  in  the  expectation ;  but 
the  fear,  or  rather  the  consciousness  that  I  shall  not  answer  on  a 
nearer  view,  makes  it  a  trembling  kind  of  happiness,  and  a 
doubtfiil. 

After  that  privacy  %\'hich  I  have  mentioned  above,  I  went  ta 
Huntingdon:   soon  after  my  arrival  there  I  took  up  my  quai-ters, 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  If 

at  the  house  of  the  Reverend  Mr.  Unwin  ;  I  lived  with  him  while 
iie  lived,  and  ever  since  his  death  have  lived  with  his  widow. 
Her,  therefore,  you  will  find  mistress  of  the  house;  and  I  judge  of 
you  amiss,  or  you  will  find  her  just  such  as  you  would  wish. 
To  me  she  has  been  often  a  nurse,  and  invariably  the  kindest 
friend,  through  a  thousand  adversities  that  I  have  had  to  grapple 
■with  in  the  course  of  almost  thirty  years.  I  thought  it  better  to 
introduce  her  to  you  thus,  than  to  present  her  to  you  at  your  com^ 
ing,  quite  a  stranger. 

Bring  with  you  any  books  that  you  tliink  may  be  useful  to  my 
commentatorship,  for,  Avith  you  for  an  interpreter,  I  shall  be 
afraid  of  none  of  them.  And,  in  truth,  if  you  think  that  you  shall 
want  them,  you  must  bring  books  for  your  own  use  also  ;  for  they 
are  an  article  with  v/hich  1  am  heinously  unprovided.,  being  much 
in  the  condition  of  the  man  whose  libi'ary  Pope  describes,  as 

No  mighty  store ! 
His  own  works  neatly  bound,  and  little  more ! 

You  shall  know  how  this  has  come  to  pass  hereafter. 

Tell  me,  my  friend,  are  your  letters  m  your  own  hand  writing? 
If  so,  I  am  in  pain  for  your  eyes,  lest,  by  such  frequent  demands 
upon  them,  I  should  hurt  them.  I  had  rather  write  you  three  let- 
ters for  one,  much  as  I  prize  your  letters,  than  that  should  hap- 
pen. And  now,  for  the  present,  adieu — I  am  going  to  accompany 
Milton  into  the  lake  of  fire  aud  brimstone,  having  just  begun  my 
annotations.  W.  C. 


LETTER  XVIII. 

To  the  Reverend  Mr.  HURDIS. 

Weston^  JprilS,  1792, 
Mv  DEAR  Sir, 

Your  entertaining  and  pleasant  letter,  re- 
sembling in  tjiat  respect,  all  tliat  I  receive  from  you,  deserved  a 
more  expeditious  answer,  and  should  have  had  what  it  so  well  de- 
served, had  it  not  reached  me  at  a  time  when,  deeply  in  debt 
to  all  my  correspondents,  I  had  letters  to  write  without  num- 
ber ;  like  autumnal  leaves  that  strew  the  brooks — in  Vallombrosa  ; 
the  unanswered  farrago  lay  before  me.  If  I  quote  at  all,  you  must 
expect  me  henceforth  to  quote  none  but  Milton,  since,  for  a  long 
time  to  come,  I  shall  be  occupied  with  him  only. 

I  was  nuich  pleased  with  the  extract  you  gave  me  from  j-our 
sister  Eliza's  letter  :  <^]ie  writes  very  elegantly,  and  (if  I  might  say 


30  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

5t  withotit  seemmg  to  flatter  you)  I  should  say  much  in  tiie  manner 
of  her  brother.  It  is  well  for  your  sister  ShMv,  iliat  g'oomv  Dis  is 
already  a  married  man  ;  else,  perhaps,  finding  her,  as  he  found 
Proserpine,  studying  Botany  in  the  fields,  he  might  transport  her 
to  his  own  flowerless  abode,  where  all  her  hopes  of  improvement 
in  that  science  would  be  at  an  end  for  ever. 

What  letter  of  the  lOth  of  December  is  that  which  }ou  say  you 
have  not  yet  answered?  Consider,  it  is  April  now,  and  I  never  re- 
member any  thing  that  I  write  half  so  long.  But  perhaps  it  relates 
■to  Calchas,  for  I  do  rennember  that  you  have  not  yet  furnished  me 
with  the  secret  history  of  him  and  his  family,  which  I  demanded 
from  j^ou.     Adieu.     Yours  most  sincerely, 

vv.  c. 

I  rejoice  that  you  are  so  well  with  the  learned  Bishop  of  Sarum, 
and  well  remember  how  he  ferreted  the  vermin  Lauder  out  of  ail 
his  hidings,  when  I  was  a  boy  at  Westminster. 

I  have  not  yet  studied  with  your  last  remarks  before  me,  but 
hope  soon  to  find  an  opportunity. 


LETTER  XIX. 
To  Lady  THROCKMORTON. 
My  dear  Lady  Frog,  J/ir-il  16,  ir92. 

I  thank  you  for  your  letter,  as  sweet  as 
it  was  short,  and  as  sweet  as  good  news  could  make  it.  You  en- 
courage a  hope  that  has  made  me  happy  ever  since  I  have  enter- 
tained it ;  and  if  my  wishes  can  hasten  the  event,  it  will  not  be 
long  suspended.  As  to  your  jealousy,  I  mind  it  not,  or  only  to  be 
pleased  with  it.  I  shall  say  no  more  on  the  subject  at  present  than 
this,  that  of  all  ladies  living,  a  certain  lady,  whom  I  need  not 
name,  would  be  the  lady  of  my  choice  for  a  certain  gentleman, 
were  the  whole  sex  admitted  to  my  election. 

\^"hat  a  delightful  anecdote  is  that  which  you  tell  me  of  a  younj 
lady  detected  in  the  very  act  of  stealing  our  Catharina's  praises  ?  Is 
it  possible  that  slie  can  survive  the  shame,  the  mortification  of 
such  a  discovery  ?  Can  she  ever  see  the  same  company  again,  or 
any  company  tliat  she  can  suppose,  by  the  remotest  possibility,  may 
liave  heai'd  the  tidings  ?  If  slie  caij,  she  must  have  an  assurance 
equal  to  her  vanity.  A  lady  in  London  stole  my  song  on  the  Broken 
Rose,  or  rather  would  have  stolen  and  have  passed  it  for  her  own. 
But  she,  too,  yfas  unfortunate  in  her  attempt ;  for  there  happened  to 
be  a  female  cousin  of  mine  in  company,  who  knew  that  I  had 
ivriiten  it.  -  It  is  very  flattering  to  a  poet's  pride,  that  the  ladies 
slfoukl  thus  hazard  every  thing  for  the  sake  of  appropriating 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  "21 

his  verses.  I  may  say  with  Milton,  "  that  I  am  fallen  on  evil 
tongues  and  evil  days^"  being  not  only  pluutlered  of  that  which 
belongs  to  me,  but  being  charged  with  that  which  does  not.  Tlius 
k  seems  (and  I  have  learned  it  from  more  quarters  than  one)  that 
a  I'eport  is,  and  has  been  somewhat  current  in  this  and  the  neigh- 
bouring counties,  that  though  I  have  given  myself  the  air  of  de- 
claiming against  the  slave  trade  in  the  Task,  I  am,  in  reality,  a 
friend  to  it ;  and  last  night  I  received  a  letter  from  Joe  Rye,  to  in- 
form me  that  I  have  been  much  traduced  and  calumniated  on  this 
account.  Not  knowing  how  I  could  better,  or  more  effectually  re- 
fute the  scandal,  I  have  this  morning  sent  a  copy  to  the  Northamp- 
ton paper,  prefaced  by  a  short  letter  to  the  printer,  specifying  the 
occasion.  The  verses  arc  in  honour  of  Mr.  Wilberfcrce,  and  suf- 
ficiently expressive  of  my  present  sentiments  on  the  subject.  You 
arc  a  Avicked  fair  one  for  disappointing  us  of  our  expected  visit, 
and  therefore  out  of  mere  spite  I  will  not  insert  them.  I  have 
been  very  ill  these  ten  da}'s,  and  for  the  same  spite's  sake  will 
not  tell  you  what  has  ailed  me.  But  lest  you  should  die  of  a  fright, 
I  will  have  the  mercy  to  tell  you  that  I  am  recovering. 

Mrs.  G and  her  little  ones  are  gone,  but  your  brother  Is 

still  here.  He  told  me  that  he  had  some  expectations  of  Sir  John 
at  Weston  ;  if  he  comes,  I  shall  most  heartil}-  rejoice  once  more 
\n  see  him  at  a  tabic  so  many  -years  his  own.*  W.  C. 


SONNET, 
To  WILLIAM  WILRERFORCE,  Esquire. 

Thy  country,  Wilbevforce,  with  just  disdain, 
Hears  thee,  by  cruel  men  and  impicus  call'd 
Fanatic,  for  thy  zeal  to  loose  th'  enthrall'd 
From  exile,  public  sale,  and  slav'ry's  chain. 
Friend  of  the  poor,  the  wrong'd,  the  fetter-gall'ct, 
Fear  not  lest  labour  such  as  thine  be  vain  t 
Thou  hast  achiev'd  a  part ;  hast  gain'd  the  ear 
Of  Britain's  Senate  to  thy  glorious  cause : 
Hope  smiles,  Joy  springs,  and  though  cold  Caution  pause 
And  v.'eave  delay,  the  better  hour  is  near, 
That  shall  remunerate  thy  toils  severe 
By  peace  for  Afric,  fenc'd  with  British  laws. 
Enjoy  what  thou  hast  wen,  esteem  and  lo\e 
From  all  tlic  just  en  earth,  and  all  t'.ic  blcirt  above  \ 

•  }Cnte  by  fh,'  tilitor. — The  followint;  Soiincf,  not  [T'.ntr;!  in  the  collected  woiks  of  Cowfer, 
Si  the  potm  that  he  alluded  to  iii  this  letter. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER. 


LETTER  XX. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  May  5,  17^, 
A  January  Storm. 
My  dearest  Coz, 

I  rejoice,  as  thou  reasonably  supposes! 
iTie  to  do,  in  the  matrimonial  news  communicated  in  your  last. 
Not  that  it  was  altogether  news  to  me,  for  twice  I  had  received 
broad  hints  of  it  from  Lady  Frog,  by  letter,  and  several  times  -uiva 
•voce  while  she  was  here.  But  she  enjoined  me  seci'ecy  as  well  as 
tjou,  and  you  know  that  all  secrets  are  safe  with  me ;  safer  far 
than  the  winds  in  the  bags  of  iEolus.  I  know  not,  in  fact,  the  lady 
%vhom  it  would  give  me  more  pleasure  to  call  Mrs.  Courtney,  than 
the  lady  in  question ;  partly  because  I  know  her,  but  especially  be- 
cause I  know  her  to  be  all  that  I  can  wish  in  a  neighbour. 

I  have  often  observed  that  there  is  a  regular  alternation  of  good 
and  evil  in  the  lot  of  men,  so  that  a  favouraljle  incident  may  be 
considered  as  the  harbinger  of  an  unfavourable  one,  and  viceversa. 
Dr.  Madan's  experience  witnesses  the  truth  of  this  observation. 
One  day  he  gets  a  broken  head,  and  the  next  a  mitre  to  heal  it.  I 
rej(5ice  that  he  has  met  with  so  effectual  a  cure,  though  my  joy  is 
not  unmingled  with  concern  ;  for  till  now  I  had  some  hope  of  see- 
ing him ;  but  since  I  live  in  the  north,  and  his  episcopal  call  is  in 
the  west,  that  is  a  gratification,  I  suppose,  which  I  must  no  longer 
look  for. 

My  sonnet,  which  I  sent  you,  was  printed  in  the  Northampton 
paper  last  week ;  and  this  week  it  pi'oduced  me  a  complimentary 
one  in  the  same  paper,  which  served  to  convince  me,  at  least,  by 
the  m.atter  of  it,  that  my  own  was  not  published  without  occasion, 
and  that  it  had  answered  its  purpose. 

My  correspondence  with  Hayley  proceeds  briskly,  and  is  very 
affectionate  on  both  sides.  I  expect  him  here  in  about  a  fortnight, 
and  wish  heartily,  with  IVIrs.  Unwin,  that  you  would  give  him  a 
meeting.  I  have  promised  him,  indeed,  that  he  shall  find  us  alone, 
but  yon  are  one  of  the  family. 

I  wish  much  to  print  the  following  lines  in  one  of  the  daily  pa- 
pers. Lord  S's.  vindication  of  the  poor  culprit,  in  the  affair  of 
Chcit-sing,  has  confirmed  me  in  the  belief  that  he  has  been  injuri- 
ously treated,  and  I  think  it  an  act  merely  of  justice  to  take  a  little 
notice  of  him. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  ^S 

To  WARREN  HASTINGS,  Esquire. 

Bij  an  old  School-felloiv  of  his  at  Westminster. 

Hastings  !  I  knew  thee  young,  and  of  a  mind, 
While  young,  humane,  conversable  and  kind  j 
Nor  can  I  well  believe  thee,  gentle  thenf 
JVbiv  grown  a  villain,  and  the  worst  of  men : 
But  rather  some  suspect,  who  have  oppress'd 
And  worried  thee,  as  not  themselves  the  best. 


If  you  will  take  the  pains  to  send  them  to  thy  news-monger, 
hope  thou  wilt  do  well.     Adieu. 

W.  C. 


I 


LETTER  XXI. 
To  JOHN  JOHNSON,  Esquire. 

May  20,  1792. 
My  dearest  of  all  Joiixnvs, 

I  am  not  sovry  that  your  ordination  is 
postponed.  A  year's  learning  and  wisdom,  added  to  your  present 
stock,  will  not  be  more  than  enough  to  satisfy  the  demands  of  your 
function.  Neither  am  I  sorry  that  you  find  it  difficult  to  fix  youi' 
thoughts  to  the  serious  point  at  all  times.  It  proves,  at  least,  that 
you  attempt  and  wish  to  do  it;  and  these  are  good  symptoms. 
Woe  to  those  who  enter  on  the  ministry  of  the  gospel  without  hav- 
ing previously  asked,  at  least,  from  God,  a  mind  and  spirit  suited 
to  their  occupation,  and  whose  experience  never  differs  from  itself; 
because  they  are  always  alike  vain,  light,  and  inconsiderate.  It 
is,  therefore,  matter  of  great  joy  to  me  to  hear  you  complain  of 
levity,  and  such  it  is  to  Mrs.  Unwin.  She  is,  I  thank  God.  toler- 
ably well,  and  loves  you.  As  to  the  time  of  your  joui-ney  hither, 
the  sooner  after  June  the  better ;  till  then  we  shall  have  company. 

I  forget  not  my  debts  to  your  dear  sister,  and  your  aunt  Balls. 
Greet  them  both  with  a  brother's  kiss,  and  place  it  to  my  account. 
I  will  write  to  them  when  Milton,  and  a  thousand  otlier  engage- 
ments, will  give  me  leave.  Mr.  Haylcy  is  here  on  a  visit.  We 
have  formed  a  friendship  that,  I  trust,  will  last  for  life,  and  render 
us  an  edifying  example  to  all  future  poets. 

Adieu  :  lose  no  time  in  coming  after  the  time  mentioned. 

^^^  c. 


U  LIFE  OF  COV\'PER. 

The  reader  is  informed,  by  the  close  of  the  last  letter,  that  t 
was,  at  this  time,  the  guest  of  Cowper.  Our  meeting-,  so  singularly 
produced,  was  a  source  of  recipi'ocal  deligiit;  we  looked  cheerfully 
forward  to  the  unclouded  enjoyment  of  many  social  and  literary 
hours. 

My  host,  though  no",r  in  his  sixty -first  year,  appeared  as  happily 
exempt  from  all  the  infirmities  of  advanced  life,  as  friendship 
could  wish  him  to  be;  and  his  more  elderly  companion,  not  materi- 
ally oppressed  by  tlie  age  of  seventy-two,  discovered  a  benevolent 
alertness  of  character,  that  seemed  to  promise  a  continuance  of 
their  domestic  comfort.  Their  reception  of  me  was  kindness 
itself.  I  was  enchanted  to  find  that  the  manners  and  conversation 
ctf  Cowper  resembled  his  poetry,  charming  by  unaffected  elegance 
and  the  graces  of  a  benevolent  spirit.  I  looked  wiili  affectionate 
veneratioh  and  pleasure  on  the  lady,  who,  having  devoted  her 
life  and  fortune  to  the  service  of  this  tender  and  subiime  genius, 
in  watching  over  him  with  maternal  vigilance  througli  many  years 
of  the  darkest  calamity,  appeai-ed  to  be  now  enjoying  a  reward 
justly  due  to  the  noblest  exertions  of  friendship,  in  contemplating- 
the  health  and  renown  of  the  poet,  whom  she  had  the  happinesa 
CO  preserve. 

It  seemed  hai'dly  possible  to  survey  human  nature  in  a  more 
touching  and  more  satisfactory  point  of  view. — Their  tender 
attention  to  each  other,  their  simple  devout  gratitude  for  the  mer- 
cies v/hich  they  had  experienced  together,  and  their  constant,  but 
■unaffected  propensity  to  impress  on  the  mind  and  heart  of  a  new 
friend,  the  deep  sense  which  they  incessantly  felt  of  their  mutual 
oblig-ations  to  each  other,  afforded  me  very  singular  gratification ; 
Tshich  my  reader  will  conceive  the  more  forcibly,  when  he  iias 
peinised  the  following  exquisite  sonnet^  addressed  by  Cowper  to 
Mrs.  Unwin- 

SONNET. 

Mary !  I  want  a  lyre  Avith  other  strings; 

Such  aid  from  heaven  as  some  have  feign'd  they  drewt- 

An  eloquence  scarce  given  to  mortals,  new. 

And  undebas'd  by  praise  of  meaner  things  ! 

That  ere  through  age  or  woe  I  shed  my  wings, 

I  may  record  thy  worth,  with  honour  due. 

In  \erse  as  musical  as  tiiou  art  true. 

Verse,  that  immortalizes  whom  it  sinsrs  L 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  55 

But  thou  liast  little  need:  there  is  a  book  ,-  ,  ■  • 

By  seraphs  writ,  with  beams  of  heavenly  light,  ^ 

On  which  the  eyes  of  God  not  rarely  look  j  r| 

A  chronicle  of  actions  just  and  bright!  „.j 

There  all  thy  deeds,  my  faithful  Mary,  shine, 

And  since  thou  own'st  that  praise,  I  spare  thee  mine. 


The  delight  tliat  I  derived  from  a  perfect  view  of  the  virtues, 
the  talents,  and  the  present  domestic  enjoyments  of  Cowper,  was 
suddenly  overcast  by  the  darkest  and  most  painful  anxiety. 

After  passing  our  mornings  in  social  study,  we  usually  walked 
out  together  at  noon.  In  returning  fcom  one  of  cur  rambles, 
around  the  pleasant  village  of  Weston,  we  were  met  by  Mr. 
Greatheed,  an  accomplished  minister  of  the  gospel,  who  resides 
at  Newport-Pagnel,  and  v.'hom  Cowper  described  to  me  in  terms 
of  cordial  esteem. 

He  came  forth  to  meet  us  as  we  drew  near  the  house,  and  it 
■was  soon  visible  from  his  countenance  and  manner,  that  he  had  iU 
news  to  impart.  After  the  most  tender  preparation  that  humanity 
could  devise,  he  acquainted  Cowper  that  Mrs.  Unwin  was  under 
the  immediate  pressure  of  a  paralytic  attack. 

My  agitated  friend  rushed  to  the  sight  of  the  sufferer.  He 
returned  to  me  in  a  state  that  alarmed  me  in  the  highest  degi'ee 
for  his  faculties.  His  first  speech  to  me  was  wild  in  the  extreme. 
My  answer  would  appear  little  less  so,  but  it  was  addressed  to  the 
predominant  fancy  of  my  unhappy  friend  ;  and,  with  the  blessing 
of  heaven,  it  produced  an  instantaneous  calm  in  his  troubled  mind. 

From  that  moment  he  rested  on  my  friendship  with  such  mildt 
and  cheerful  confidence,  that  his  affectionate  spirit  regarded  m^ 
as  sent  providentially  to  support  him  in  a  season  of  the  severest 
affliction. 

A  very  fortunate  incident  enabled  me  to  cheer  him  by  a  little 
show  of  medical  assistance,  in  a  form  that  was  highly  beneficial  to 
his  compassionate  mind,  wb.ateA-er  its  real  influence  might  be  oix 
the  palsied  limbs  of  our  interesting  patient. 

Ha\  ing  formerl}^  provided  myself  with  an  electrical  apparatus, 
for  the  purpose  of  applying  it  medicinally  to  counteract  a  continual 
tendency  to  inflammation  in  tlie  eyes,  I  had  used  it  occasionally, 
for  several  years,  in  trying  to  relieve  various  maladies  in  my 
rustic  neighbours  ;  often,  indeed,  with  no  success,  but  now  and  then 
Avith  the  happiest  effect.  I  wished  to  try  this  powerful,  though 
uncertain  remedy  on  the  present   occasion  j  and  intjuired  mogt 

VOL.  II.  JE- 


26  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

eagerlv  if  the  village  of  Weston  could  produce  an  electrical  ma- 
chine.— Jt  was  hardly  to  be  expected  ;  but  it  so  happened,  that  a 
worthy  inhabitant  of  Weston,  a  man  whom  Cowper  regai-ded  for 
uncommv^n  gentleness  of  manners,  and  for  an  ingenious  mind,  pos- 
sessed exactly  such  an  apparatus  as  we  wanted,  which  he  had 
partly  conscructed  himself. 

This  gdod  man,  Mr.  Socket,  Avas  absent  from  the  village,  but 
his  wife,  for  whose  relief  the  apparatus  had  been  originally  formed, 
most  readily  lent  it  to  her  suffering  neighbour.  With  this  season- 
able aid,  seconded  by  medicines  probably  more  efficacious,  from  a 
physician  (of  consummate  skill  and  benevolence,  united  to  the 
most  fascinating  manners)  whom  I  was  then  so  happy  as  to  reckon 
Ml  the  list  of  my  living  friends,  Mrs.  Unwin  was  gradually  restored. 

But  the  progress  of  her  recovery,  and  its  influence  on  the  ten- 
der spirits  of  Cowper,  will  sufficiently  appear  in  the  following 
letters. — I  shall  have  a  mournful  pleasure  in  adding  to  these  a 
few  verses,  in  which  the  gratitude  of  Cowper  has  celebrated,  most 
tenderly,  the  kindness  of  the  late  Dr.  Austin,  the  phvsician  to 
whom  I  have  alluded,  and  whose  memory  is  most  deservedly  dear 
to  me.  The  extreme  tenderness  of  Cowper  is,  indeed,  very  forci- 
bly displaj'ed  in  that  generous  excess  of  praise  with  which  be 
speaks  of  my  services  on  his  sudden  affliction. 


LETTER  XXIL 
To   Lady   HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  May  24,  ir92.. 
I  wish  with  aU  my  heart,  my  dearest  coz, 
that  I  had  not  ill  nevv^s  for  the  subject  of  the  present  letter.  My 
friend,  my  Mary,  has  again  been  attacked  by  the  same  disorder 
that  threatened  me  last  year  with  the  loss  of  her,  and  of  which  you' 
were  yourself  a  witness.  Gregson  would  not  allow  that  first 
stroke  to  be  paralytic,  but  this  he  acknowledges  to  be  so ;  and  with 
respect  to  the  former,  I  never  had  myself  any  doubt  that  it  was ; 
but  this  has  been  much  the  severest.  Her  speech  has  been  almost 
unintelligible  from  the  moment  that  she  was  struck :  it  is  with  diffi- 
cult}' that  she  opens  her  eyes,  and  she  cannot  keep  them  open ;  the 
muscles  necessary  to  the?  purpose  being  contracted ;  and  as  to  self- 
moving  powers,  from  place  to  place,  and  the  use  of  her  right  hand 
and  arm,  she  has  entirely  lost  them. 

It  has  liappened  well,  that,  of  all  men  living,  the  man  most  qua- 
lified to  assist  and  comfort  me  is  here,  tliough  till  within  these  few 
days  I  never  saw  him,  and  a  few  weeks  since  had  no  expectation 
that  I  ox'er  should.   You  have  already  guessed  that  I  mean  Hay  ley — ■ 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  27 

{layley,  who  loves  me  as  if  he  had  known  me  from  my  cradle. 
When  he  returns  to  town,  as  he  must,  alas,  too  soon,  he  will  pay 
Jiis  respects  to  you. 

I  will  not  conclude  without  adding  that  our  poor  patient  is  begin- 
ning, I  hope,  to  recover  from  this  stroke  also ;  but  her  amendment 
is  slow,  as  must  be  expected  at  her  time  of  life,  and  in  such  a 
disorder.  I  am  as  well  myself  as  you  have  ever  known  me  in  a 
time  of  much  trouble,  and  ev^n  better. 

It  was  not  possible  to  prevail  on  Mrs.  Unwin  to  let  me  send  for 
Dr.  Kerr,  but  Hayley  has  written  to  his  friend.  Dr.  Austin,  a  i"e- 
presentation  of  her  case,  and  we  expect  his  opinion  and  advice 
to-morrow.  In  the  mean  time,  we  have  borrowed  an  electrical 
machine  from  our  neighljonr  Socket,  the  effect  of  which  she  tried 
yesterday  and  the  day  Ijefore,  and  we  think  it  has  been  of  material 
service. 

She  was  seized  while  Hayley  and  I  were  walking,  and  Mr. 
Greatlieed,  who  called  while  we  were  absent,  was  with  her. 

I  forgot  in  my  last  to  thank  thee  for  the  proposed  amendments 
of  th)-  friend.  Whoever  he  is,  make  my  compliments  to  him, 
and  thank  him.  The  passages  to  which  he  objects  have  been  all 
altered,  and  when  he  shall  see  them  new  dressed,  I  hope  he  will 
like  them  better.  W.  C. 


LETTER  XXIIL 

To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge^  May  26,  1792. 
My  dearest  Coz. 

Knowing  that  you  will  be  anxious  to  leai'n 
how  we  go  on,  I  write  a  few  lines  to  inform  you  that  Mrs.  Unwin 
daily  recovers  a  little  strength,  and  a  little  power  of  utterance  ; 
but  she  seems  strongest,  and  her  speech  is  more  distinct  in  a  morn- 
ing. Hayley  has  been  all  in  all  to  us  on  this  very  afflictive  occasion. 
Love  him,  I  charge  you,  dearly  for  my  sake.  Where  could  I 
have  found  a  man,  except  himself,  who  could  have  made  himself 
so  necessary  to  me  in  so  sliort  a  time,  that  I  absolutely  know  not 
how  to  live  without  him  ? 

Adieu,  my  dear  sweet  Coz,  Mrs.  Unwin,  as  plainly  as  hev  poor 
lips  can  speak,  sends  her  best  love,  and  Hayley  threatens  in  a  few 
^ays  to  lay  close  siege  to  your  affections  in  persfifi. 

W.  C. 
There  is  some  hope,  I  find,  that  the  Cliancellor  may  continue 
in  office,  and  I  shall  be  glad  if  he  does;  because  we  have  no  single 
man  worthv  to  succeed  him.' 


2t  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

I  open  my  letter  again  to  thank  you,  my  dearest  coz.  for  yours 
just  received.  Though  happy,  as  you  well  know,  to  see  you  at  all 
times,  we  have  no  need,  and  I  trust  shall  have  none,  to  trouble 
you  witli  a  journey  made  on  purpose;  yet  once  again,  I  am  willing 
and  desirous  to  believe,  we  shall  be  a  happy  trio  at  Weston ;  but, 
unless  necessity  dictates  a  joui'ney  of  charity,  I  wish  all  yom-s 
hither  to  be  made  for  pleasure.  Farewell — Thou  shalt  know  how 
we  go  on. 


To  Dr.  AUSTIN, 

Of  Cecil  Street^  London. 

Austin  !  accept  a  gratefiil  verse  from  me ! 
The  poet's  treasure  !  no  inglorious  fee ! 
Lov'd  by  the  muses,  thy  ingenuous  mind 
Pleasing  requital  in  a  verse  may  find ; 
Verse  oft  has  dash'd  the  scythe  of  time  aside, 
Immortalizing  names,  which  else  had  died : 
And  Oh!  could  I  command  the  glittering  wealth, 
With  Avhich  sick  kings  are  glad  to  purchase  health  j 
Yet,  if  extensive  fame,  and  sure  to  live. 
Were  in  the  power  of  verse  like  mine  to  give, 
I  woiUd  not  recompence  his  art  with  less. 
Who,  giving  Mary  health,  heals  my  distress. 

Friend  of  my  friend  !  I  love  thee,  though  unknown, 
And  boldly  call  thee,  being  his,  my  own. 

w.  c. 


LETTER  XXIV. 
To  Mrs.  BODHAM. 

Wcaton^  June  4,  1792. 
My  dearest  Rose, 

I  am  not  such  an  ungrateful  and  insensi- 
ble animal  as  to  have  neglected  you  thus  long  without  a  reason. 


I  cannot  say  that  I  am  sorry  that  our  dear  Johnny  finds  the  pulpit 
door  shut  against  him  at  present.  He  is  young,  and  can  afford  to 
%vait  another  year :  neither  is  it  to  be  regretted,  that  his  time  of  pre- 
paration for  an  office  of  so  much  importance  as  that  of  a  minister 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  2» 

(Of  God's  word,  should  have  been  a  little  protracted.  It  is  easier  to 
direct  the  movements  of  a  great  army,  than  to  guide  a  few  souls 
to  heaven ;  the  way  is  narrow,  and  full  of  snares,  and  the  guide 
himself  has  the  most  difficulties  to  encounter.  But  I  trust  he  will 
do  well.  He  is  single  in  his  views,  honest-hearted,  and  desirous, 
by  prayer  and  study  of  the  scripture,  to  qualify  himself  for  the 
service  of  his  great  master,  who  will  suffer  no  sucli  man  to  fail  for 
-ivant  of  his  aid  and  protection.     Adieu. 

vv.  c. 


LETTEU   XXV. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

Weston,  June  3,  1792, 
All's  Well. 
Which  words  I  place  as  conspicuously  as 
possible,  and  prefix  them  to  my  letter,  to  save  you  the  pain,  my 
friend  and  brother,  of  a  moment's  anxious  speculation.  Poor 
IVIary  proceeds  in  her  amendment  still,  and  improves,  I  think, 
even  at  a  swifter  rate  than  when  you  left  her.  The  stronger  she 
grows,  the  faster  she  gathers  strength,  which  is  perhaps  the  natu- 
ral course  of  recovery.  She  v/alked  so  well  tliis  morning,  that  she 
told  me  at  my  first  visit,  she  had  entirely  forgot  her  illness,  and  she 
spoke  so  distinctly,  and  had  so  much  her  usual  countenance,  that, 
had  it  been  possible,  she  would  have  made  me  forget  it  too. 

Returned  from  my  walk,  blown  to  tatters — found  two  dear  things 
in  the  study,  your  letter,  and  my  Mary  !  She  is  bravely  well,  and 
your  beloved  epistle  does  us  both  good.  I  fv:iund  your  kind  pencil- 
note  in  my  song-book,  as  soon  as  I  came  down  on  the  morning  of 
your  departure  ;  and  Mary  was  vexed  to  the  heart,  that  the  sim- 
pletons who  watched  her  supposed  her  asleep,  when  she  was  not, 
for  she  learned  soon  after  you  were  gone,  that  you  woidd  have 
peeped  at  her,  had  you  known  her  to  have  been  awake.  I,  perhaps, 
might  have  had  a  peep  too,  and  thei'efore  was  as  vexed  as  she:  but 
if  it  please  God,  we  shall  make  oui-selves  large  amends  for  all  lost 
peeps  by  and  by  at  Eartha.m. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  XXVI. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

Wfnton,  June  5,  1792. 

Yesterday  was  a  noble  day  witli  us — 

v«]3cec]i  almojit  perfect — eyes  open  almost  tlic  whole  da}-,  wilUuut 


30  LIFE  OF  COWPEK. 

any  effort  to  keep  them  so ;  and  the  step  wonderfully  improved* 
But  the  night  has  been  almost  a  sleepless  one,  owing  partly,  I  be- 
lieve, to  her  having  had  as  much  sleep  again  as  usual  the  night  be- 
fore: for  even  when  she  is  in  tolerable  health,  she  hardly  ever 
sleeps  well  two  nights  together.  I  found  her,  accordingly,  a  little 
out  of  spirits  this  morning,  but  still  insisting  on  it  that  she  is  better. 
Indeed,  she  always  tells  me  so,  and  will  probably  die  with  those 
very  words  upon  her  lips.  They  will  be  true  then,  at  least,  for 
then  she  will  be  best  of  all.  She  is  now  (the  clock  has  just  struck 
eleven)  endeavouring,  I  believe,  to  get  a  little  sleep,  for  which 
reason  I  do  not  yet  let  her  know  that  I  have  received  your  letter. 

Can  I  ever  honour  you  enough  for  your  zeal  to  serve  me?  Truly 
I  think  not :  I  am,  however,  so  sensible  of  the  love  I  owe  you  on  this 
account,  that  I  every  day  regret  the  acuteness  of  your  feelings  for 
me,  convinced  that  they  expose  you  to  much  trouble,  mortifica- 
tion, and  disappointment.  I  have,  in  short,  a  poor  opinion  of  my 
destiny,  as  I  told  you  when  you  wer^  here  ;  and  though  I  believe 
that  if  any  man  living  can  do  me  good,  you  will,  I  cannot  yet  per- 
suade myself,  that  even  you  will  be  successful  in  attempting  it.  But 
it  is  no  matter ;  you  are  yourself  a  good  which  I  can  never  value 
enough,  and  whether  rich  or  poor  in  other  respects,  I  shall  always 
account  myself  better  provided  for  than  I  deserve,  with  such  a 
friend  at  my  back  as  you.  Let  it  please  God  to  continue  to  me 
my  William  and  Mary,  and  I  will  be  more  reasonable  than  to 
grumble. 

I  rose  this  morning  wrapt  round  with  a  cloud  of  melancholy,  and 
tvith  a  heart  full  of  fears  ;  but  if  I  see  Mary's  amendment  a  little 
advanced,  when  she  rises,  I  shall  be  Ijetter. 

I  have  just  been  with  her  again.  Except  that  she  is  fatigued 
for  want  of  sleep,  she  seems  as  well  as  yesterday.  The  post 
brings  me  a  letter  from  Hurdis,  who  is  broken-hearted  for  a  dying 
sister.  Had  we  eyes  siiarp  enough,  we  should  see  the  aiTows  of 
death  fiying  in  all  directions,  and  account  it  a  wonder  that  we,  and 
©ur  friends,  escape  them  but  a  single  day. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  XXVn. 
To  VVILLL\M  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

Weston,  June  7,  ]7'92, 

Of  what  materials  can  you  suppose  me 

made,  if,  after  all  the  rapid  proofs  that  you  have  given  me  of  your 

friendship,  I  do  not  love  you  with  all  my  heart,  and  regret  your 

ftbsencc  continually?    But  you  must  permit  me,  nevertheless,  to  b<; 


LIFE  OF  COWPER;  31 

•melancholy  now  and  then ;  or  if  you  will  not,  I  must  be  so  without 
your  permission;  for  that  sable  thread  is  so  intermixed  v/ith  the 
very  thread  of  my  existence  as  to  be  inscparal^le  from  it,  at  least 
while  I  exist  in  the  body.  Be  content,  therefore,  let  me  sigh  and 
groan,  but  always  be  sure  that  I  love  you.  You  will  be  well  as- 
sured that  I  should  not  have  indulged  myself  in  tliis  rhapsody  about 
myself,  and  my  melancholy,  had  my  present  mood  been  of  that 
complexinn,  or  had  not  our  poor  Mary  seemed  still  to  advance  in 
her  iecovery.  So  in  fact  slie  does,  and  has  performed  several  little 
feats  to-day ;  such  as  either  she  could  not  perform  at  all,  or  very 
feebly,  while  you  were  with  us. 

I  shall  be  glad  if  you  have  seen  Johnny,  as  I  call  him,  my  Nor- 
folk cousin ;  he  is  a  sweet  lad,  but  as  shy  as  a  bird.  It  costs  him 
always  two  or  three  days  to  open  his  mouth  before  a  stranger; 
but  when  he  does,  he  is  sure  to  please  by  the  innocent  cheerful- 
ness of  his  conversation.  His  sister,  too,  is  one  of  my  idols,  for  the 
resemblance  she  bears  to  my  mother. 

Mary  and  you  have  all  my  thoughts ;  and  how  should  it  be  other- 
"tvise  ?  She  looks  well,  is  better,  and  loves  you  dearl}". 

Adieu,  my  brother.  \V.  C- 


LETTER  XXVIIT. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

JVeston,  June  10,  1792. 
I  do,  indeed,  anxiously  wish  tliat  every 
thing  you  do  may  prosper  ;  and  should  I  at  last  prosper  _by  your 
means,  shall  taste  double  sv/eetness  in  prosperity  for  that  reason. 

I  rose  this  morning,  as  I  usually  do,  with  a  mind  all  in  sables. 
In  this  mood  I  presented  myself  to  Mary's  bed-side,  whom  I  found, 
though  after  many  hours  lying  awake,  yet  clieerful,  and  not  to  be 
affected  with  my  desponding  humour.  It  is  a  great  blessing  to  us 
both,  that  poor  feeble  thing  as  she  is,  slie  has  a  most  invincible 
courage,  and  a  trust  in  God's  goodness  that  nothing  shakes.  She 
is  now  in  the  study,  and  is  certainly,  in  some  degree,  better  than 
she  was  yesterday  ;  but  how  to  measure  that  little  I  know  not,  ex- 
cept by  saying  that  it  is  just  perceptilile. 

I  am  glad  that  you  have  seen  my  Johnny  of  Norfolk,  because  I 
know  it  will  be  a  comfort  to  you  to  have  seen  your  successor.  He 
arrived,  to  my  great  joy,  yesterday;  and  not  having  bound  him- 
self to  any  particular  time  of  going,  will,  I  hope,  stay  long  with  us. 
You  are  now  once  more  snug  in  your  retreat ;  and  I  give  you  joy  of 
your  return  to  it,  after  the  bustle  in  which  you  have  lived  since 
you  left  Weston.    Weston  mounis  your  absence,  and  will  mourn  it 


S3  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

till  she  sees  you  again.  What  is  to  become  of  Milton  I  know  riotr 
I  do  nothing  but  scribble  to  you,  and  seem  to  have  no  relish  for 
any  other  employment.  I  have,  however,  in  pursuit  of  your  idea, 
to  compliment  Darwin,  put  a  few  stanza's  together,  which  I  shall 
subjoin ;  you  will  easily  give  ihcm  all  that  you  find  they  want,  and 
match  the  song  with  another. 

I  am  now  going  to  walk  with  Johnny,  much  cheered  since  I  be- 
gan writing  to  you,  and  by  Mary's  looks  and  good  spirits. 

W.  C. 


To  Dr.  DARWIN, 

Author  of  the  Botanic  Garden, 

Two  poets  (poets,  by  report, 

Not  oft  so  well  agree) 
Sweet  harmonist  of  Flora's  court ! 

Conspire  to  honour  thee. 

They  best  can  judge  a  poet's  worth, 
Who  oft  themselves  have  known 

The  pangs  of  a  poetic  birth. 
By  labours  of  their  own. 

We,  therefore,  pleas'd,  extol  thy  song. 
Though  various,  yet  complete ; 

Rich  in  embellishment  as  strong, 
And  learn'd  as  it  is  sweet. 

No  envy  mingles  with  our  praise  ; 

Though,  could  our  hearts  repine 
At  any  poet's  happier  lays, 

They  would,  they  must,  at  thine. 

But  we,  in  mutual  bondage  knit 
Of  Friendship's  closest  tie, 

Can  gaze  on  even  Darwin's  w  it 
With  an  unjaundic'd  eye : 

And  deem  the  bard,  whoe'er  he  be, 

And  howsoever  known. 
Who  would  not  twine  a  wreath  for  thee. 

Unworthy  of  Uis  own. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  33 

LETTER  XXIX. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

June  19,  ir92. 
*  *  *  Thus  have  I  filled  a 

Xvhole  page  to  my  dear  William  of  Eartham,  and  have  not  said  a 
syllable  yet  about  my  Marj- — a  sure  sign  that  she  goes  on  well. 
Be  it  known  to  you,  that  we  have  these  four  days  discarded  our 
sedan  with  two  elbows.  Here  is  no  more  earning,  or  being  car- 
ried, but  she  walks  up  stairs  boldly,  with  one  hand  upon  the  balu- 
strade, and  the  other  under  my  arm,  and  in  like  manner  she  comes 
down  in  a  morning.  Still  I  confess  she  is  feeble,  and  misses 
much  of  her  former  strength.  The  weather,  too,  is  sadly  against 
her;  it  deprives  her  of  many  a  good  turn  in  the  orchard,  and  fifty 
times  I  have  wished  this  very  day,  that  Dr.  Darwin's  scheme  of 
giving  rudders  and  sails  to  the  Ice-islands,  that  spoil  all  our  sum- 
mers, were  actually  put  in  practice.  So  should  we  have  gentle 
airs  instead  of  churlish  blasts,  and  those  evei-lasting  sources  of  bad 
weather  being  once  navigated  into  the  southern  hemisphere,  my 
Mary  would  recover  as  fast  again.  We  are  both  of  your  mind 
respecting  the  journey  to  Eartham,  and  think  that  July,  if  by  that 
time  she  have  strength  for  the  journey,  will  be  better  than  August. 
We  shall  have  more  long  days  before  us,  and  then  we  shall  want 
as  much  for  our  return  as  for  our  going  forth.  This,  however, 
must  be  left  to  the  Giver  of  all  good.  If  our  visit  to  you  be  ac- 
cording to  his  will,  he  will  smooth  our  way  before  us,  and  appoint 
the  time  of  it ;  and  I  thus  speak,  not  because  I  wish  to  seem  a  saint 
in  your  eyes,  but  because  my  poor  Mary  is  actually  one,  and  would 
not  set  her  foot  over  the  threshold  to  save  her  life,  unless  she  had, 
or  thought  she  had,  God's  free  permission.  With  that  she  would 
go  through  floods  and  fire,  though  without  it  she  would  be  afraid 
of  e\'ery  thing ;  afraid  even  to  visit  you,  dearly  as  she  loves,  andi 
much  as  she  longs  to  see  j'ou. 

W.  C. 


LETTER   XXX. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

Westrm,  June  27,  17^2, 
Well  then — let  us  talk  about  this  journey 
to  Eartham.  You  wish  me  to  settle  the  time  of  it,  and  I  wish  with 
all  my  heart  to  be  able  to  do  so,  living  in  hopes,  meanwhile,  that 
I  shall  be  able  to  do  it  soon.  But  some  little  time  must  necessarily 
intervene.  Our  Mary  must  be  able  to  walk  alone,  to  cut  her  own 
VOL.  n,  F 


34  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

food,  and  to  feed  herself,  and  to  we&r  her  own  shoes,  for  at  prc-^ 
sent  she  wears  mine.  All  things  considered,  my  friend  and  bro- 
ther, you  will  see  tlie  expediency  of  waiting  a  little  before  we  set 
off  to  Eartham  :  we  mean,  indeed,  before  that  day  arrives,  to  make 
a  trial  of  the  strength  of  her  head,  how  far  it  may  be  able  to  bear 
the  motion  of  a  carriage,  a  motion  that  it  has  not  felt  these  seven 
years.  I  grieve  that  we  are  thus  circumstanced,  and  that  we 
cannot  gratify  ourselves  in  a  delightful  and  innocent  project  without 
all  these  precautions ;  but  when  we  have  leaf-gold  to  handle,  we 
must  do  it  tenderly. 

I  thank  you,  my  brother,  both  for  presenting  my  authorship  to 
your  friend  Guy,  and  for  the  excellent  A'erses  with  which  you  have 
inscribed  your  present.  There  are  none  neater  or  better  turned : 
with  what  shall  I  requite  you  ?  I  have  nothing  to  send  you  but  a 
gimcrack,  which  I  have  prepared  for  my  bride  and  bridegroom 
neighbours,  who  are  objected  to-morrow.  You  saw  in  my  book  a 
poem,  entitled  Catharina,  and  which  concluded  with  a  wish  that 
we  had  her  for  a  neighbour  :  this,  therefore,  is  called 

CATHARINA  : 

THE  SECOND  PART. 

€hi  her  Marriage  to  George  CouRT'ENEr,  Esquire^ 

Believe  it  or  not,  as  you  choose, 

The  doctrine  is  certainly  true, 
That  the  fiiture  is  known  to  the  muse, 

And  poets  are  oracles  too. 

I  did  but  express  a  desire 

To  see  Catharina  at  home. 
At  the  side  of  my  fi-iend  George's  fire  ; 

And  lo !  she  is  actually  come. 

And  such  prophecy  some  may  despise ; 

But  the  wish  of  a  poet  and  friend 
Perhaps  is  approv'd  in  the  skies. 

And  therefore  attains  to  its  end. 

'Twas  a  wish,  that  flew  ardently  forth 
From  a  bosom  eflFectually  warm'd 

With  the  talents,  the  graces,  and  worth 
Of  the  person  for  whom  it  was  form'd- 


LIFE  O^  COWPER.  55 

Maria  Avould  leave  us,  I  knew, 

To  the  gi-ief  and  regret  of  us  all ; 
But  less  to  our  grief  could  we  view 

Catharina  the  queen  of  the  hall. 

And  therefore,  I  wish'd  as  I  did, 

And  therefore,  this  union  of  hands 
Not  a  whisper  was  heard  to  forbid, 

But  all  cry,  Amen,  to  the  bands. 

Since,  therefore,  I  seem  to  incur 

No  danger  of  wishing  in  vain, 
Wlien  making  good  wishes  for  her, 

I  will  e'en  to  my  wishes  again. 

With  one  I  have  made  her  a  wife. 

And  now  I  will  try  with  another, 
Which  I  cannot  suppress  for  my  life, 

How  soon  I  can  make  her  a  mother. 

w.  c. 


LETTER   XXXL 
To  WILLL\M  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

Weston,  July  4,  1792. 
I  know  not  how  you  proceed  in  your  life 
of  Milton,  but  I  suppose  not  very  rapidly,  for  while  you  were 
here,  and  since  you  left  us,  you  have  had  no  other  theme  but  me. 
As  for  myself,  except  my  letters  to  you,  and  the  nuptial  song  I  in- 
serted in  my  last,  I  have  literally  done  nothing  since  I  saw  you : 
nothing,  I  mean,  in  the  writing  way,  though  a  great  deal  in  ano- 
ther ;  that  is  to  say,  in  attending  my  poor  Mary,  and  endeavour- 
ing to  nurse  her  up  for  a  journey  to  Eartham.  In  this  I  have  hi- 
therto succeeded  tolerably  well,  and  had  rather  carry  this  point 
completely  than  be  the  most  famous  editor  of  Milton  that  the 
world  has  ever  seen  or  shall  see. 

Your  hiuTiorous  descant  upon  my  art  of  wishing  made  us  merry, 
and  consequently  did  good  to  us  both.  I  sent  my  wish  to  the  Hall 
yesterday.  They  are  excellent  neighbours,  and  so  friendly  to  me 
that  I  wished  to  gratify  them.  When  I  went  to  pay  my  first  visit, 
•(ieorgc  flew  into  the  court  to  meet  me,  and  when  I  entered  the 
parlour,  Catharina  sprang  into  ni}'  arms. 

W.  C 


5®  LIFE  OF  GOWPER. 

LETTER  XXXIT. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

Weston,  July  15,  ITd"!, 
The  progress  of  the  old  nurse  in  Terence 
IS  very  much  like  the  progress  of  my  poor  patient  in  the  road  of 
recovery.  I  cannot,  indeed,  say  that  she  moves,  but  advances  not, 
for  advances  are  certainly  made,  but  the  progress  of  a  week  is 
hardly  perceptible.  I  know  not,  therefore,  at  present,  what  to  say 
about  this  long-postponed  journey.  The  utmost  that  it  is  safe  for 
me  to  say  at  this  moment  is  this;  you  know  that  you  are  dear  to  us 
both ;  true  it  is  that  you  are  so,  and  equally  true  that  the  very 
instant  we  feel  ourselves  at  libert)'  we  will  fly  to  Eartham.  I  have 
been  but  once  within  the  Hall  door  since  the  Coui'teneys  came 
home,  much  as  I  have  been  pressed  to  dine  there,  and  have  hardly 
escaped  giving  a  little  offence  by  declining  it.  But  though  I  should 
offend  all  the  v/orld  by  my  obstinacy  in  this  instance,  I  would  not 
leave  ray  poor  Mary  alone.  Johnny  serves  me  as  a  representative, 
and  him  I  send  without  scruple.  As  to  tlie  affair  of  Milton,  I  know 
not  what  will  become  of  it.  I  wrote  to  Johnson  a  week  since  to  tell 
him  that  the  interruption  of  Mrs.  Unwin's  illness  still  continuing, 
and  being  likely  to  continue,  I  know  not  when  I  should  be  able  to 
proceed.  The  translations,  I  said,  were  finished,  except  the  revi- 
sal  of  a  part. 

God  bless  your  dear  little  boy  and  poet !  I  thank  him  for  exer- 
cising his  dawning  genius  upon  me,  and  shall  Ije  still  happier  to 
thank  him  in  person. 

Abbot  is  painting  mc  so  true, 

That,  trust  me  you  would  stare, 
And  hardly  know,  at  the  first  view, 

If  I  were  here,  or  there. 

1  have  sat  twice;  and  the  few  Avho  have  seen  his  copy  of  me  are 
much  struck  with  the  resemblance.  He  is  a  sober,  quiet  man, 
which,  considering  that  I  must  have  him  at  least  a  week  longer 
for  an  inmate,  is  a  great  comfort  to  me. 

My  Mary  sends  you  her  best  love.  She  can  walk  now, 
leaning  on  my  arm  only,  and  her  speech  is  certainly  much  im- 
proved. I  long  to  see  you.  WTiy  cannot  you  and  dear  Tom  spend 
the  remainder  of  the  summer  with  us  ?  We  might  then  all  set  off 
for  Eartham  merrily  together.  But  I  retract  this,  conscious  that 
I  am  unreasonable.  It  is  a  wretched  world,  and  what  we  would, 
is  almost  always  what  we  cannot.  Adieu.  Love  me,  and  be  sure 
of  a  return.  W.  C. 


LIFE  OF  COWPRR.  37 

LETTER  XXXin. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

TVesto?},  July  22,  1792. 
This  important  affair,  my  dear  brother, 
is  at  last  decided,  and  we  are  coming.  Wednesday  sc'nnight,  if 
nothing  occur  to  make  a  later  day  necessary,  is  the  day  fixed  for 
our  journey.  Our  rate  of  travelling  must  depend  on  Mary's  abi- 
lity to  bear  it.  Our  mode  of  travelling  will  occupy  three  days 
imavoidably,  for  we  shall  come  in  a  coach.  Abbot  finishes  my 
picture  to-morrow;  on  Wednesday  he  returns  to  town,  and  is  com- 
missioned to  order  one  down  for  us,  with  four  steeds  to  draw  it: 

— — "  Hollow  pamper'd  jades  of  Asia, 
"  That  cannot  go  but  forty  miles  a  day." 

Send  us  our  route,  for  1  am  as  ignorant  of  it  almost  as  if  I  were  m 
a  strange  country. — ^We  shall  reach  St.  Alban's,  I  suppose,  the 
•first  day;  say  where  we  must  finish  our  second  day's  journey,  and 
at  what  inn  we  may  best  repose.  As  to  the  end  of  the  third  day, 
we  know  where  that  will  find  us ;  viz.  in  the  arms  and  under  the 
I'oof  of  our  beloved  Haylc}'. 

General  Cowper  having  heai'd  a  rumour  of  this  intended  migra- 
tion, desires  to  meet  me  on  the  road,  that  we  may  once  more  see 
each  other.  He  lives  at  Ham,  near  Kingston.  Shall  we  go  through 
Kingston,  or  near  it?  For  I  would  give  him  as  little  trouble  as  pos- 
sible, though  he  offers  very  kindly  to  come  as  far  as  Barnet  for 
that  purpose.  Nor  must  I  forget  Cai'wardine,  who  so  kindly  de- 
sired to  be  informed  what  way  we  should  go.  On  what  point  of 
the  road  will  it  be  easiest  for  him  to  find  us?  On  all  these  points 
you  must  be  my  oracle.  My  friend  and  brother,  we  shall  over- 
whelm you  with  our  numbers :  this  is  alL  the  trouble  that  I  have 
left.  My  Johnny  of  Norfolk,  happy  in  the  thought  of  accompany- 
ing us,  would  be  broken-hearted  to  be  left  behind. 

In  the  midst  of  all  these  solicitudes  I  laugli  to  think  what  they 
are  made  of,  and  what  an  important  thing  it  is  for  me  to  travel. 
Other  men  steal  away  from  their  homes  silently,  and  make  no 
disturbance ;  but  when  I  move,  houses  are  turned  upside  down, 
maids  are  turned  out  of  their  beds,  all  the  counties  through  which 
I  ])ass  appear  to  be  in  an  uproar.  Surry  greets  me  by  the  mouth 
of  the  General,  and  Essex  by  that  of  Carwiirdine.  How  strange 
floes  all  this  seem  to  a  man  who  has  seen  no  bustle,  and  made  none, 
for  twenty  jears  tog(jther  ! 

W.  C. 


3«  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

LETTER  XXXIV. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

Weston,  July  29,  IT'SS. 

Tlirough  floods  and  flames  to  your  retreat 

I  win  my  desp'rate  way, 
And  when  we  meet,  if  e'er  we  meet, 

Will  echo  your  huzza. 

You  will  wonder  at  the  word  deslfrate  in  the  second  line,  and  at 
the  if  in  the  third ;  but  could  you  have  any  conception  of  the  fears 
I  have  had  to  bustle  with,  of  the  dejection  of  spirits  that  I  have 
suffered  concerning  this  journey,  you  would  wonder  much  more 
that  I  still  courageously  persevere  in  my  resolution  to  undertake  it. 
Fortunately  for  my  intentions  it  happens  that  as  the  day  ap- 
jn-oaches  my  terrors  abate ;  for  had  they  continued  to  be  what  they 
were  a  week  since,  I  must,  after  all,  have  disappointed  you;  and 
was  actually  once  on  the  verge  of  doing  it.  I  have  told  you  some- 
thing of  my  nocturnal  experiences,  and  assure  you  now  that  they 
were  hardly  ever  more  terrific  than  on  this  occasion.  Prayer  has, 
however,  opened  my  passage  at  last,  and  obtained  for  me  a  degree 
of  confidence  that  I  trust  will  prove  a  comfortable  viaticum  to  mc 
all  the  way.     On  Wednesday,  therefore,  we  set  forth. 

The  terrors  that  I  have  spoken  of  would  appear  ridiculous  to 
most,  but  to  you  they  will  not,  for  you  are  a  reasonable  creature, 
and  know  well,  that,  to  wliatever  cause  it  be  owing,  whether  to  con- 
stitution or  to  God's  express  appointment,  I  am  liunted  by  spiritual 
liounds  in  fiie  night-season.  I  cannot  help  it.  You  will  pity  me, 
and  wish  it  were  otherwise ;  and  though  you  may  think  that  there 
is  much  of  the  imaginaiy  in  it,  will  not  deem  it,  for  that-  reason,  an 
<2vil  less  to  be  lamented.  So  much  for  fears  and  distresses.  Soon, 
I  ho|ie,  they  shall  all  have  a  joyful  termination,  and  I,  my  Mary, 
iiiy  Johnny,  and  my  dog,  be  skipping  with  delight  at  Eartham. 
,  Well,  this  picture  is  at  last  finished,  and  well  finished,  I  can 
assure  you.  Every  ci'eature  that  has  seen  it  has  been  astonished  at 
tlie  resemblance.  Sam's  boy  bowed  to  it,  and  Beau  walked  up  to 
it,  wagging  his  tail  as  he  went,  and  evidently  showing  that  he  ac- 
knowledged its  likeness  to  his  master.  It  is  a  half-length,  as  it  is 
technically  but  absurdly  called ;  that  is  to  say,  it  gives  all  but  the 
fr)ot  and  ankle.  To-morrow  it  goes  to  town,  and  will  hang  some 
months  at  Abbot's,  wlien  it  Avill  be  sent  to  its  due  destination  in 
Norfolk. 

T  hope,  or  rather  wish,  that  at  Eartham  I  may  recover  that 
hutit  of  study  which,  inveterate  as  it  once  seemed,  I  now  seem  to 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  39 

have  lost — ^lost  to  such  a  degree,  that  it  is  even  painful  to  me  to 
think  of  what  it  will  cost  me  to  acquire  it  again. 

Aclicu,  my  dear,  dear  Hayley;  God  give  us  a  happy  meeting. 
Mar}'  sends  her  love — she  is  in  pretty  good  plight  this  morning, 
having  slept  well,  and,  for  her  part,  has  no  fears  at  all  about  the 
journey.     Ever  yours,  W.  C. 


.  The  affectionate  little  prayer  at  the  close  of  the  last  letter  pre- 
vailed, and  providence  conducted  these  most  interesting  travellers 
\eiy  safely  to  my  retreat.  The  delights  that  I  enjoyed  in  promot- 
ing the  health  and  cheerfulness  of  guests  so  dear  to  me ;  in  sharing 
the  high  gratification  of  Cowper's  society,  with  my  old  sympathetic 
friend  Romney ;  and  in  beholding  that  expressive  resemblance  of 
the  poet,  which  forms  a  frontispiece  to  this  work,  grow  under  tlie 
pencil  of  the  friendly  artist  (agreeably  inspired  by  the  mental  dig- 
nity of  his  subject);  these  delights  are  indeed  treasured  in  my 
memory,  among  those  prime  blessings  of  mortal  existence  which 
still  call  for  our  gratitude  to  heaven,  even  when  they  are  departed; 
for  even  then  they  still  afford  us  that  sweet  secondary  life  which 
we  form  to  oursehes,  from  the  pleasing  contemplation  of  past 
hours  very  happily  employed. 

It  is,  however,  uimccessary  for  me  to  dv/ell  on  the  memoraljle 
period  that  Cowper  passed  under  my  roof,  because  a  few  of  his 
letters,  written  to  different  friends  while  he  was  with  me,  will  suf- 
ficiently describe  the  beneficial  effect  which  the  beautiful  scenery 
of  Sussex  very  visibly  produced  on  his  health  and  spirits.  I  fear 
not  the  imputation  of  vanity  for  insei'ting  the  vivid  praise  of  my 
friend  on  tlie  spot  I  inhabited,  for  I  now  inhaijit  it  no  more ;  and  if 
I  ever  had  any  such  vanity,  it  must  ha^'e  perished  Avith  the  darling 
child  for  whom  I  wished  to  embellish  and  preserve  the  scene 
that  Cowper  has  so  highly  commended. 

The  tender  partiality  which  this  most  feeling  friend  had  con- 
ceived for  me  rendered  him  not  a  little  partial  to  whatever  engaged 
his  thoughts  as  mine.  Man}'  endearing  marks  of  such  partiality 
occurred  during  his  residence  at  Eartham ;  but  the  one  which 
gratified  me  most  I  cannot  forbear  to  mention.  I  mean  the  \ery 
sweet  condescension  with  which  he  admitted  to  his  friendship  and 
confidence  the  cliild  to  whom  I  have  alluded,  at  tliat  time  a  boy  of 
ele\en  years,  whose  rare  early  talents,  and  rarer  modesty,  en- 
deared him  so  much  to  Cowper,  that  he  allowed  and  invited  hin\ 
to  criticise  his  Homer.  Tl'.e  good-natured  reader  will  forgive  mc, 
if  he  hapjjens  to  find  a  brief  sped n;en  of  sucli  juvenile  crivicisni  in 
their  future  correspondence. 


40  LIFE  OF  COWF^ER. 

Homer  was  not  the  immediate  object  of  our  attention,  while 
Cowper  resided  at  Eartham.  Tlie  morning  hours  tliat  we  could 
bestow  upon  books  were  chiefly  devoted  to  a  coniplete  revisal  and 
correction  of  all  the  translations  whicli  my  friend  bad  finished 
from  the  Latin  and  Italian  poetiy  of  Milton ;  and  it  was  generally 
our  pastime  after  dinner  to  amuse  ourselves  in  executing  a  rapid 
metrical  version  of  Andreiui's  Adamo.  But  the  constant  care 
which  the  delicate  health  of  Mrs.  Unwin  required,  rendered  it 
impossible  for  us  to  be  veiy  assiduous  in  study,  and  perhaps  the 
best  of  all  studies  was,  to  promote  and  share  tha.t  most  singular  and 
most  exemplary  tenderness  of  attetition,  with  which  Cowper  in- 
cessantly laboured  to  counteract  every  infirmity,  bodily  and  men- 
tal, with  which  sickness  and  age  had  conspired  to  load  tliis  interest- 
ing guardian  of  his  afflicted  life. 

I  have  myself  no  language  sufficiently  strong,  or  sufficiently  ten- 
der, to  express  my  just  admiration  of  that  angelic,  compassionate 
sensibility,  with  which  Cowper  incessantly  Avatched  over  his  aged 
invalid  ;  but  my  reader  will  yet  be  enabled  to  form  an  adequate 
idea  of  that  sensibility  by  a  copy  of  his  verses,  to  which  it  gave 
rise,  when  these  infirmities  grew  still  more  striking,  on  her  return 
to  Weston. 

The  air  of  the  soutli  infused  a  little  portion  of  fresh  strength 
into  her  shattered  frame,  and  to  give  it  all  possible  efficacy,  the 
boy,  whom  I  have  mentioned,  and  a  young  associate  and  fellow  stu- 
dent of  his,  employed  themselves  regularly  twice  a  dr.y,  in  draw- 
ing this  venerable  cripple,  in  a  commodious  garden-chair,  I'ound 
the  airy  hill  of  Eartham.  To  Cowper,  and  to  me,  it  was  a  very 
pleasing  spectacle,  to  see  the  benevolent  vivacity  of  blooming 
youth  thus  continually  labouring  for  the  ease,  health,  and  amuse- 
ment of  disabled  age.  But  of  this  interesting  time  I  will  speak  no 
more,  since  I  have  a  better  record  of  it  to  present  to  my  reader  in 
tlie  following  letters. 


LETTER  XXXV. 
To  the  Reverend  Mr.  GREATHEED. 

JSarthaniy  August  6,  1792» 
My  dear  Sir, 

Having  first  thanked  you  for  your  affec- 
tionate and  acceptable  letter,  I  will  proceed,  as  well  as  I  can,  to 
answer  your  equally  affectionate  request,  that  I  Avould  send  you 
early  news  of  our  arrival  at  Eartham.  Here  we  are,  in  the  most 
elegant  mansion  that  I  have  e^ej'  inhabited,  and  surrounded  by 
the  most  delightful  pleasure-grounds  that  I  have  ever  seen;  but 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  41 

^hich,  dissipated  as  my  powers  of  thought  are  at  present,  I  will 
not  undertake  to  describe.  It  shall  suffice  me  to  say,  that  they  oc- 
cupy three  sides  of  a  hill,  which,  in  Buckinghamshire,  might  well 
pass  for  a  mountain,  and  from  the  summit  of  which  is  beheld  a 
most  maguificeut  landscape,  bounded  by  the  sea,  and  in  one  part 
of  it  by  the  Isle  of  Wight,  which  may  also  be  seen  plainly  from 
the  window  of  the  library,  in  which  I  am  writing. 

It  pleased  God  to  carry  us  both  through  the  journey  with  far  less 
difficulty  and  inconvenience  than  I  expected.  I  began  it,  indeed, 
with  a  thousand  fears,  and  when  we  arrived  the  first  evening  at 
Barnet,  found  myself  oppressed  in  spirit  to  a  degree  that  could 
hardly  be  exceeded.  I  saw  Mrs.  Unwin  weary,  as  she  might 
well  be,  and  heard  such  a  variety  of  noises,  both  within  the  house 
and  without,  that  I  concluded  she  would  get  no  rest.  But  I  was 
mercifully  disappointed.  She  rested,  though  not  well,  yet  suffici- 
ently ;  and  when  we  finished  our  next  day's  journey  at  Ripley,  we 
were  both  in  better  condition,  both  of  body  and  mind,  than  on  the 
day  preceding.  At  Ripley  we  found  a  quiet  inn,  that  housed,  as 
it  happened,  that  night  no  company  but  ourselves.  There  we 
slept  well,  and  rose  perfectly  refreshed;  and,  except  some  terrors 
that  I  felt  at  passing  over  the  Sussex  hills  by  moon-light,  met  with 
little  to  complain  of,  till  we  arrived,  about  ten  o'clock,  at  Eartham. 
Here  we  are  as  happy  as  it  is  in  the  power  of  terrestrial  good  to 
make  us.  It  is  almost  a  paradise  in  which  we  dwell ;  and  our  re- 
ception has  been  the  kindest  that  it  was  possible  for  friendship 
and  hospitality  to  contrive.  Our  host  mentions  you  with  great  re- 
spect, and  bids  me  tell  you  that  he  esteems  you  highly.  Mrs.  Un- 
win, who  is,  I  think,  in  some  points,  already  the  better  for  her  ex- 
cursion, unites  with  mine  her  best  compliments,  l>oth  to  yourself 
and  Mrs.  Greatheed.  I  have  much  to  see  and  enjoy  before  I  can 
be  perfectly  apprized  of  all  the  dehghts  of  Eartham,  and  will 
therefore  jiow  subscribe  myself  yours,  m}^  dear  Sir,  with  great  sin-. 
«erit>',  W.  C. 


LETTER  XXXVI. 
To  Mrs.  COURTENEY. 

Eartham,  Jurist  12,  1792. 
My  dearest  Catharina, 

Though  I  have  travelled  far,  nothing  did 
I  see  in  my  travels  that  surprised  me  half  so  agreeably  as  your 
kind  letter;  for  high  as  my  opinion  is  of  your  good-nature,  I  had  no 
hopes  of  hearing  from  you  till  I  shc^uld  ha\e  written  first — a  plea- 
sure which  I  intended  to  allow  m>self  the  first  opportunity. 

VOL.  II.  G 


49  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

After  three  days  confinement  in  a  coach,  and  suffering  as  we 
Avent  all  that  could  be  suffered  from  excessive  heat  and  dust,  we 
found  ourselves  late  in  the  evening  at  the  door  of  our  friend  Hayley* 
In  every  other  respect  the  journey  was  extremely  pleasant.  At  the 
Mitre,  in  Barnet,  where  we  lodged  the  first  evening,  we  found  our 
friend  Mr.  Rose,  who  had  v/alked  thither  from  his  house  in  Chancery 
Lane  to  meet  us;  and  at  Kingston,  where  we  dined  the  second  day, 
I  found  my  old  and  much  valued  friend,  General  Cowper,  whont 
I  had  not  seen  in  thirty  years,  and  but  for  this  journey  should 
never  have  seen  again.  Mrs.  Unwin,  on  whose  account  I  had  a 
thousand  fears  l)efore  we  set  out,  suffered  as  little  from  fatigue  as 
myself,  and  begins,  I  hope,  already  to  feel  some  beneficial  effects 
from  the  air  of  Eartham,  and  the  exercise  that  she  takes  in  one  of 
the  most  delightful  pleasure-grounds  in  the  world.  Tlaey  occupy 
three  sides  of  a  hill,  lofty  enough  to  command  a  view  of  the  sea, 
which  skirts  the  horizon  to  a  length  of  many  miles,  with  the  Isle 
of  Wight  at  the  end  of  it.  The  inland  scene  is  equally  beautiful, 
consisting  of  a  large  and  deep  valley  well  cultivated,  and  inclosed 
by  magnificent  hills,  all  crowned  with  wood.  I  had,  for  my  part, 
no  conception  that  a  poet  could  be  the  owner  of  such  a  paradise  j 
and  his  house  is  as  elegant  as  his  scenes  are  charming. 

But  think  not,  my  dear  Catharina,  that  amidst  all  these  beauties 
I  shall  lose  the  remembrance  of  the  peacefid,  but  less  splendid, 
Weston.  Your  precincts  will  be  as  dear  to  me  as  ever,  when  I 
return ;  though  when  that  day  will  arrive  I  know  not,  our  host 
being  determined,  as  I  plainly  see,  to  keep  us  as  long  as  possible. 
Give  my  best  love  to  your  husband.  Thank  him  most  kindly  for 
his  attention  to  the  old  Bard  of  Greece,  and  pardon  me  that  I  do 
not  send  you  now  an  epitaph  for  Fop.  I  am  not  sufficiently  recol- 
lected to  compose  even  a  bagatelle  at  present;  but  in  due  time  you 
shall  receive  it, 

Hayley,  who  will  some  time  or  other,  I  hope,  see  you  at  Weston, 
is  already  prepared  to  love  you  both,  and  being  passionately  fond  of 
music,  longs  much  to  hear  you. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  XXX\1I. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

Eartham,  August  14,  1792.. 
Romney  is  here.     It  would  add  much  to- 
my  happiness  if  you  were  of  the  party.     I  have  prepared  Hayley 
to  think  highly,  that  is,  justly  of  you,  and  the  time  I  hops  will  come- 
when  you  will  supersede  all  need  of  my  recommendatirau 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  45 

Mrs.  Unwin  gathers  strength.  I  have  indeed  great  hopes,  from 
tlie  air  and  exercise  which  this  fine  season  affords  her  oppoi'tu- 
3iity  to  use,  that  ere  we  return  she  will  be  herself  again. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  XXXVin. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

Eai'thcan,  August  18,  179'2, 
Wishes  in  this  world  are  generally  vain, 
and  in  the  next  we  shall  make  none.  Every  day  I  wish  you  were 
of  our  party,  knowing  how  happy  you  would  be  in  a  place  where 
we  have  nothing  to  do  but  enjoy  beautiful  scenery,  and  convei'se 
agreeably. 

Mrs.  Unwin 's  health  continues  to  improve;  and  even  I,  who 
was  well  when  I  came,  find  myself  still  better.     Adieu, 

w.  c. 


LETTER  XXXIX. 
To  Mrs.  COURTENEY. 

Eartham,  August  25,  1792. 
Without  waiting  for  an  answer  to  my  last, 
I  send  Tuy  dear  Catharina  the  epitaph  she  desired,  composed,  as 
well  as  I  could  compose  it,  in  a  place  where  every  object,  being 
still  new  to  mc,  distracts  my  attention,  and  makes  me  as  aukward. 
at  verse  as  if  I  had  never  dealt  in  it.     Here  it  is. 


EPITAPH  ON  FOP: 

A  Dog  belovging  to  Lady  Throckmorton. 


\ 


Though  once  a  puppy,  and  tliough  Fop  by  name. 

Here  moulders  cue,  wliose  bones  some  honour  claim  j 

No  sycophant,  although  of  spaniel  race  ! 

And  though  no  hound,  a  martyr  to  the  chace  J 

Ye  squirrels,  rabbits,  leverets,  rejoice  ! 

Y^our  haunts  no  longer  echo  to  his  voice. 

This  record  of  his  fate  exulting  view  : 

He  died,  worn  out  witli  vain  pursuit  of  yon. 

«  Yes!"  the  indignant  shade  of  Fop  replies, 
*^  And,  worn  with  vain  pursuit,  Man  also  dies," 


U  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

I  am  here,  as  I  told  you  in  my  last,  delightfully  situated,  and 
in  the  enjoyment  of  all  that  the  most  friendly  hospitality  can  im- 
part ;  yet  do  I  neither  forget  Weston,  nor  my  friends  at  Weston : 
on  the  contrary,  I  have,  at  length,  though  much  and  kindly  pressed 
to  make  a  longer  stay,  determined  on  the  day  of  our  departure. 
On  the  seventeenth  day  of  September  we  shall  leave  Eartham. 
Four  days  Avill  be  necessary  to  bring  us  home  again  ;  for  I  am  un- 
der a  promise  to  General  Cowper  to  dine  with  him  on  the  way, 
which  cannot  be  done  comfortably,  either  to  him  or  to  ourselves^ 
unless  we  sleep  that  night  at  Kingston. 

The  air  of  this  place  has  been,  I  believe,  beneficial  to  us  both: 
I  indeed  v/as  in  tolerable  health  before  I  set  out,  but  have  acquired, 
since  I  came,  both  a  better  appetite,  and  a  knack  of  sleeping 
almost  as  much  in  a  single  night  as  formerly  in  two.  Whether 
double  quantities  of  that  article  will  be  favourable  to  me  as  a  poet, 
time  must  show.  About  myself,  however,  I  care  little,  being 
made  of  materials  so  tough  as  not  to  threaten  me  evenlTOw,  at  the 
end  of  SO  many  lusiru?ns,  with  any  thing  like  a  speedy  dissolution. 
My  chief  concern  has  been  about  Mrs.  Unwin,  and  my  chief  com- 
fort at  this  moment  is,  that  she  likewise  has  received,  I  hope,  con- 
siderable benefit  by  the  journey. 

Tell  my  dear  George  that  I  begin  to  long  to  behold  him  again, 
and  did  it  not  savour  of  ingratitude  to  the  friend  under  whose  roof 
I  am  so  happy  at  present,  should  be  impatient  to  find  myself  once 
moi-e  under  yours. 

Adieu,  my  dear  Catharina.  I  have  nothing  to  add  in  the  way 
of  news,  except  that  Romney  has  drawn  me  in  crayons,  by  the 
suffrage  of  all  here,  extremely  like. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  XL. 
To  the  Reverend  Mr.  HURDIS. 

Eartham^  August  26,  1792. 
Mr  DEAR  Sir, 

Your  kind  but  very  affecting  letter  found 
me  not  at  Weston,  to  which  place  it  was  directed,  but  in  a  bov/er 
of  my  friend  Hayley's  garden,  at  Eartham,  where  I  was  sitting 
with  Mrs.  Unwin.  Wtt  both  knew,  the  moment  we  saw  it,  from 
whom  it  came,  and  observing  a  red  seal,  both  comforted  ourselves 
that  all  was  well  at  Burwash  ;  but  we  soon  felt  that  we  were  called 
not  to  rejoice,  but  to  mourn  with  you  :  we  do  indeed  sincei-ely 
mourn  Avith  you ;  and  if  it  will  afford  you  any  consolation  to  know 
it,  you  may  be  assured  that  every  eye  here  has  testified  what  our 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  4H 

lieavts  have  suffered  for  you.  Your  loss  is  great,  and  your  dis- 
position, I  perceive,  such  as  exposes  you  to  feel  the  whole  veight 
of  it.  I  will  not  add  to  your  sorrow,  by  a  vain  attem])t  to  assuage 
it:  your  own  good  sense,  and  the  piety  of  your  principles,  will,  of 
course,  suggest  to  you  the  most  powerful  motives  of  acquiescence 
m  the  will  of  God.  You  will  be  sure  to  recollect  that  the  stroke, 
severe  as  it  is,  is  not  the  stroke  of  an  enemy,  but  of  a  father ;  and 
will  find,  I  trust,  hereafter,  that,  like  a  father,  he  has  done  you 
good  by  it.  Thousands  have  been  able  to  say,  and  myself  as  loud 
as  any  of  them,  it  has  been  good  for  me  that  I  ^vas  afflicted ; 
but  time  is  necessary  to  work  us  to  this  persuasion,  and  in  due 
time  it  shall  be  yours.  Mr.  Hayley,  who  tenderly  sympathises 
"with  you,  has  enjoined  me  to  send  you  as  pressing  an  invitation  as 
I  can  frame,  to  join  me  at  this  place.  I  have  every  motive  to  wish 
your  consent ;  both  your  benefit  and  my  own,  which,  I  believe, 
■would  be  abundantly  answered  by  your  coming,  ought  to  make  me 
eloquent  in  such  a  cause.  Here  you  will  find  silence  and  retire- 
ment in  perfection,  when  you  would  seek  them,  and  here  such 
company  as,  I  have  no  doubt,  would  suit  you ;  all  cheerful,  but 
not  noisy  ;  and  all  alike  disposed  to  love  you.  You  and  I  seem  to 
have  here  a  fair  opportunity  of  meeting.  It  were  a  pity  we  should 
be  in  the  same  county  and  not  come  together.  I  am  here  till  the 
seventeenth  of  September,  an  interval  that  will  afford  you  time  to 
make  the  necessary  arrangements,  and  to  gratify  me  at  last  with 
an  interview,  which  I  have  long  desired.  Let  me  hear  from  you 
soon,  that  I  may  have  double  pleasure,  the  pleasure  of  expecting, 
as  well  as  that  of  seeing  you. 

Mrs.  Unwin,  I  thank  God,  though  still  a  sufferer  by  her  last  ill- 
ness, is  much  better,  and  has  received  considerable  benefit  by  the 
air  of  Eartham.  She  adds  to  mine  her  affectionate  compliments, 
and  joins  me  and  Hayley  in  this  invitation- 
Mr.  Romney  is  here,  and  a  young  man  a  cousin  of  mine.  I  tell 
5-ou  who  we  are,  that  you  may  not  be  afraid  of  us. 

Adieu — May  tlie  Comforter  of  all  the  afflicted  who  seek  him  be 
yours.     God  bless  you. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  XLI. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

Eartham,   Auguftt  26,  1792. 

1  know  not  how  it  is,  my  dearest  coz. 

but  in  a  new  scene,,  and  surrounded  by  strange  objects,  I  find  my 

powers  of  thinking  dissipated  to  a  degree  that  makes  it  difficult  to 


49  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

me  even  to  write  a  letter,  and  even  a  letter  to  you ;  but  such  a 
letter  as  I  can,  I  will,  and  have  the  fairest  chance  to  succeed  this 
morning ;  Hayley,  and  Romney,  and  Hayley's  son,  and  Beau,  be- 
ing all  gone  together  to  the  sea  for  bathing.  The  sea,  you  must 
know,  is  nine  miles  off;  so  that  unless  stupidity  prevent,  I  shall 
have  opportunity  to  write  not  only  to  you,  but  to  poor  Hurdis  also, 
who  is  broken-hearted  for  the  loss  of  his  favourite  sister,  lately 
dead ;  and  whose  letter,  giving  an  account  of  it,  which  I  received 
yesterday,  drevf  tears  from  the  eyes  of  all  our  part)^.  My  only 
comfort  respecting  even  yourself  is,  that  you  write  in  good  spirits, 
and  assure  me  that  you  are  in  a  state  of  recovery ;  otherwise  I 
should  mourn  not  only  for  Hurdis,  but  for  myself,  lest  a  certain 
event  should  reduce  me,  and  in  a  short  time  too,  to  a  situation  as 
distressing  as  his ;  for  though  nature  designed  you  only  for  my  cou- 
sin, you  have  had  a  sister's  place  in  my  affections  ever  since  I  knew 
you.  The  reason  is,  I  suppose,  that  having  no  sister,  the  daughter 
of  my  own  mother,  I  thought  it  proper  to  have  one,  the  daughter 
of  yours.  Certain  it  is  that  I  can  by  no  means  afford  to  lose  you, 
and  that  unless  you  will  be  upon  honour  with  me,  to  give  me  al- 
ways a  true  account  of  yourself,  at  least  when  wc  are  not  togetlier, 
I  shall  always  be  unhappy,  because  always  suspicious  that  you  de- 
ceive me. 

Now  for  ourselves.  I  am,  without  the  least  dissimulation,  in  good 
health  ;  my  spirits  are  about  as  good  as  you  have  ever  seen  them  ; 
and  if  increase  of  appetite,  and  a  double  portion  of  sleep,  be  ad- 
vantageous, such  are  the  advantages  that  I  have  received  from 
this  migration.  As  to  that  gloominess  of  mind  which  I  have  had 
these  twenty  years,  it  cleaves  to  rae  even  here,  and  could  I  be  trans- 
lated to  paradise,  unless  I  left  my  body  behind  me,  would  cleave 
to  me  even  there  also.  It  is  my  companion  for  life,  and  nothing 
will  ever  divorce  us.  So  much  for  myself.  Mrs.  Unwin  is  evi- 
dently the  better  for  her  jaunt,  though  by  no  means  as  she  was  be- 
fore this  last  attack ;  still  wanting  help  when  she  would  rise  from 
her  seat,  and  a  support  in  walking :  but  she  is  able  to  use  more 
exercise  than  she  could  at  home,  and  moves  with  rather  a  less  tot- 
tering step.  God  knows  what  he  designs  for  me,  but  when  I  see 
those  who  are  dearer  to  me  than  myself  distempered  and  en- 
feebled, and  myself  as  strong  as  in  the  days  of  my  youth,  I  tremble 
for  the  solitude  in  which  a  few  years  may  place  me.  I  wish  her 
and  you  to  die  before  me,  indeed,  but  not  till  I  am  more  likely  to 
follow  immediately.     Enougli  of  this. 

Romney  has  drawn  me  in  crayons,  and  in  the  opinion  of  all 
hei-e,  with  his  best  hand,  and  with  the  most  exact  resemblance 
possible. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  '*5' 

The  seventeenth  of  September  is  the  day  on  wliich  1  intend  to 
leave  Eartham.  We  shall  then  have  been  six  weeks  resident 
here  ;  a  holiday  time  long  enough  for  a  man  Avho  lias  much  to  do. 
And  now  farewell. 

W.  C. 

P.  S.  Hayley,  whose  love  for  me  seems  to  be  truly  that  of  a 
brother,  has  given  me  his  picture,  drawn  by  Romney  about  fifteen 
years  ago ;  an  admirable  likeness. 


LETTER  XLII. 

To  Lady  HESKETH. 

Eartham,  ScfU.  9,  1792. 
My  dearest  Coz. 

I  determine,  if  possible,  to  send  you  one 
more  letter,  or,  at  least,  something  like  one,  before  we  leave 
Eartham.  But  I  am,  in  truth,  so  unaccountably  local  in  the  use 
of  my  pen,  that,  like  the  man  in  the  fable,  who  could  leap  well  no 
where  but  at  Rhodes,  I  seem  incapable  of  writing  at  all,  except  at 
Weston.  This  is,  as  I  have  already  told  you,  a  delightful  place  ; 
more  beautiful  sceneiy  I  have  never  beheld,  nor  expect  to  behold ; 
but  the  charms  of  it,  uncommon  as  they  are,  have  not  in  the  least 
aUenated  my  affections  from  Weston.  The  genius  of  that  place 
suits  me  better  ;  it  has  an  air  of  snug  concealment,  in  which  a  dis- 
position like  mine  feels  itself  peculiarly  gratified :  whereas,  here 
I  see  from  every  window  woods  like  forests,  and  hills  like  moun- 
tains, a  wildness,  in  short,  that  rather  increases  my  natural  melan- 
choly, and  which,  were  it  not  for  the  agi-eeables  I  find  within, 
would  soon  convince  me  that  mere  change  of  place  can  avail  me 
Kttle.  Accordingly,  I  have  not  looked  out  for  a  liouse  in  Sussex, 
nor  shall. 

The  intended  day  of  our  departure  continues  to  be  the  seven- 
teenth. I  hope  to  re -conduct  Mrs.  Unwin  to  the  Lodge  Avith  her 
health  considerably  mended ;  but  it  is  in  the  article  of  speech  chief- 
ly, and  in  her  powers  of  walking,  that  she  is  sensible  of  much  im- 
provement. Her  sight  and  her  haad  still  fail  her,  so  that  she  can 
neither  read  nor  work:  mortifying  circumstances  both,  to  hei',  who 
js  never  willingly  idle. 

On  the  eighteenth  I  propose  to  dine  with  the  General,  and  to 
rest  that  night  at  Kingston.  But  the  pleasure  I  shall  have  in  the 
interview  will  hardly  be  greater  than  the  pain  I  shall  feel  at  the 
end  of  it,  for  we  shall  part  probably  to  meet  no  more. 

Johnny,  I  know,  has  told  you  that  Mr.  Hurdis  is  here.  Dis- 
tressed by  the  loss  of  liis  sister,  he  lias  renounced  the  place  where 


48  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

she  died  for  ever,  and  is  about  to  enter  on  a  new  course  of  life  at 
Oxford.  You  would  admire  him  much.  He  is  gentle  in  his  man- 
ners, and  delicate  in  his  person,  resembling  our  poor  friend  Unwin, 
both  in  face  and  figure,  more  than  any  one  I  have  ever  seen.  But 
he  has  not,  at  least  he  has  not  at  present,  his  vivacity. 

I  have  corresponded  since  I  came  here  with  Mrs.  Courteney, 
and  had  yesterday  a  very  kind  letter  from  her. 

Adieu,  my  dear ;  may  God  bless  you.  Write  to  me  as  soon  as 
you  can  after  the  twentiedi;  I  shall  then  be  at  Weston,  and  indulg- 
ing myself  in  the  hope  that  I  shall  ere  long  see  you  there  also. 

W.  C. 


The  reader  will  perceive  from  the  last  letter,  that  Cowpe?, 
amused  as  he  was  v/ith  the  scenery  of  Sussex,  began  to  feel  the 
powerful  attraction  of  home.  Indeed,  the  infirm  state  of  Mrs.  Un- 
win, and  the  declining  season  of  the  year,  rendered  it  highly  desir- 
able for  the  tender  travellers  to  be  restored  to  their  own  fire-side 
by  the  time  they  proposed. 

Their  departure  from  Eartham  was  a  scene  of  a.ffectionatc 
anxiety;  and  a  perfect  contrast  to  the  gaiety  of  their  arrival.  The 
kindness  of  Cowper  relieved  my  solicitude  concerning  their  jour- 
hey,  by  the  following  letter  from  Kingston.  I  insert  it  as  a  pleasing 
memorial  of  that  peculiar  tenderness  of  heart,  which  conspired 
with  his  most  admirable  talents  to  render  him  the  most  interest- 
ing of  men.  From  an  ardent,  and,  I  hope,  a  laudable  desire  to 
display  this  endearing  characteristic  of  my  friend,  I  shall  add  a 
collection  of  extracts  from  his  letters  to  me,  rather  more  copious 
tlian  I  at  first  intended. 


LETTER  XLIII. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

The  Sun,  at  Kingston,  Sept.  18,  1792. 
Mr  DEAR  Brother, 

With  no  sinister  accident  to  retard  or 
terrify  us,  we  find  ourselves,  at  a  quarter  before  one,  arrived  safe 
at  Kingston.  I  left  you  with  a  heavy  heai't,  and  witli  a  heavy 
heart  took  leave  of  our  dear  Tom,  at  the  bottom  of  the  Clialk-hill. 
Eat  soon  after  this  last  separation,  my  troubles  gushed  from  my 
eyes,  and  then  I  was  better. 

We  must  now  prepare  for  our  visit  to  the  General.  I  add  no 
more,  therefore,  than  our  dearest  remembrances  and  prayers  that 
God  may  bless  you  and  yours,  and  reward  you  an  hundred-fold 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  49 

for  all  your  kindness.  Tell  Tom  I  shall  always  hold  him  dear  for 
liis  aifcctionate  attentions  to  Mrs.  Unwin.  From  her  heart  the 
memory  of  him  can  never  be  erased.  Johnny  loves  yoii  all,  and 
has  his  share  in  all  these  acknowledgments.     Adieu. 

\V.  C. 


LETTER  XLIV. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

Wcaton,  Se/U.  21,  1792. 

Mv    DKAR    HaYLEY, 

Chaos  himself,  even  the  chaos  of  Milton, 
is  not  surrounded  with  more   confusion,  nor   has   a  mind  more 
completely  in  a  hubbub  than  I  experience  at  the  present  moment. 
At  our  first  arrival,  after  a  long  absence,  we  find  a  hundred  orders 
to  servants  necessary,  a  thousand  things  to  be  restored  to  their 
proper  places,  and  an  endless  variety  of  minutise  to  be  adjusted; 
which,  though  individually  of  little  importance,  are  most  momen- 
tous in  the  aggregate.     In  these  circumstances  I  find  mytelf  so 
indisposed  to  writing,  that,  save  to  yourself,  I  would  on  no  account 
attempt  it ;  but  to  you  I  will  give  such  a  recital  as  I  can,  of  all  that 
has  passed  since  I  sent  you  that  short  note  from  Kingston  ;  knowing 
that  if  it  be  a  perplexed  x-ecital,  you  will  consider  the  cause,  and 
pardon  it.     I  will  !)egin  with  a  remark,  in  which  I  am  inclined  to 
think  you  will  agree  with  me,  that  there  is  sometimes  more  true 
heroism  passing  in  a  corner,  and  on  occasions  that  make  no.  noise 
in  the  world,  than  has  often  been  exercised  by  those  whom  that 
world  esteems  her  greatest  heroes,  and  on  occasions  the  most  il- 
lustrious ;  I  hope  so  at  least,  for  all  the  heroism  I  have  to  boast, 
and  all  the  opportunities  I  liave  of  displaying  any,  are  of  a  private 
nature.     After  v.  riting  the  note  I  immediately  began  to  prepare 
for  my  appointed  visit  to  Ham  ;  but  the  struggles  that  I  had  with 
my  own  spirit,  labouring  as  I  did  under  the  most  dreadful  dejec- 
tion, are  never  to  be  told.     I  would  have  given  the  world  to  have 
been  excused.     I  v/ent,  hov.-cver,  and  carried  my  point  against 
myself  with  a  heart  riven  asunder.     I  have  reasons  for  all  this 
anxiety,  which  I  cannot  relate  now.     The  visit,  however,  passed 
off  well,  and  we  returned  in  the  dark  to  Kingston.     I,  with  a 
lighter  heart  than  I  had  known  since  my  departure  from  Eartham, 
and  iNlary  too,  for  she  had  suffered  hardly  less  than  myself,  and 
cliiefly  on  my  account.     That  night  we  rested  well  in  our  inn,  and 
at  twenty  niiimtes  after  eight  next  morning  set  off  for  London; 
exactly  at  ten  we  reached  Mr.  Rose's  door:   we  drank  a  dish  of 
chocolate  with  him,  and  proceeded,  Mr.  Rose  riding  witli  us  as 
VOL.  ir.  ■  H 


50  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

far  as  St.  Alban's.  From  this  time  we  met  witli  no  impediment* 
In  the  dark,  and  in  a  storm,  at  eight  at  night  we  fomid  ourselves 
at  our  own  back  door.  Mrs.  Unwin  was  very  near  slipping  out 
of  the  chair  in  which  she  was  taken  from  the  chaise,  but  at  last 
was  landed  safe.  VVe  ail  have  had  a  good  night,  and  are  all  well 
this  morning.     God  bless  you  my  dearest  brother. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  XLV. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

Wesl07i,  Oct.  2,  1792* 
My  DEAR  Hayley, 

A  bad  night,  succeeded  by  an  east  windy 
and  a  sky  all  in  sables,  have  such  an  effect  on  my  spirits,  that,  if  I 
did  not  consult  my  own  comfort  more  than  yours,  I  should  not 
write  to-day,  for  I  shall  not  entertain  you  much.  Yet  your  letter, 
though  containing  no  very  pleasant  tidings,  has  afforded  me  some 
relief.  It  tells  me,  indeed,  that  you  have  been  dispirited  yourself, 
and  tliat  poor  little  Tom,  the  faithful  squire  of  my  Mary,  has  been 
seriously  indisposed.  All  this  grieves  me;  but  then  there  is  a 
warmth  of  heart  and  a  kindness  in  it  that  do  me  good.  I  will  en- 
deavour not  to  repay  you  in  notes  of  sorrow  and  despondence, 
though  all  my  sprightly  chords  seem  broken.  In  truth,  one  day 
excepted,  I  have  not  seen  the  day  when  I  have  been  cheerful  since 
I  left  you.  My  spirits,  I  think,  are  almost  constantly  lower  than 
they  were:  the  approach  of  winter  is,  pei'haps,  the  cause,  and  if 
it  is,  I  have  nothing  better  to  expect  for  a  long  time  to  come. 

Yesterday  was  a  day  of  assignation  with  myself,  the  day  of 
■which  I  said  some  days  before  it  came,  when  that  day  comes  I  will 
begin  my  dissertations.  Accordingly,  when  it  came  I  prepared  to 
do  so;  filled  a  letter-case  v/ith  fresh  paper,  furnished  myself  with 
a  pretty  good  pen,  and  replenished  my  ink-bottle ;  but  partly  from 
one  cause,  and  partly  from  another,  chiefly,  howe\  er,  from  dis- 
tress and  dejection,  after  writing  and  obliterating  about  six  lines, 
in  the  composition  of  which  I  spent  near  and  hour,  I  was  obliged 
to  relinquish  the  attempt.  An  attempt  so  unsuccessful  could  have 
no  other  effect  than  to  dishearten  me,  and  it  has  had  that  effect  to 
such  a  degree,  that  I  know  not  when  I  shall  find  courage  to  make 
another.  At  present  I  shall  certainly  abstain,  since,  at  present, 
I  cannot  well  afford  to  expose  myself  to  the  danger  of  a  fresh  mor- 
tification. 

w.  c. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  51 

LETTER  XLVI. 

To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquhc. 

TVesto?i,  Oct,  13,  1792. 

I  began  a  letter  to  you  yesterday,  my 

dearest  brother,  ami  proceeded  through  two  sides  of  the  sheet ;  but 

so  much  of  my  nervous  fever  found  its  way  into  it,  that,  looking 

it  over  this  morning,  I  determined  not  to  send  it. 

I  have  risen,  though  not  in  good  spirits,  yet  in  better  than  I  ge- 
nerally do  of  late,  and  therefore  will  not  address  you  in  the  melan- 
choly tone  that  belongs  to  my  worst  feelings. 

I  began  to  be  restless  about  your  portrait,  and  to  say,  how  long 
shall  I  have  to  wait  for  it?  I  wished  it  here  for  many  reasons: 
the  sight  of  it  will  be  a  comfort  to  me,  for  I  not  only  love,  but  am 
proud  of  you,  as  of  a  conquest  made  in  my  old  age.  Johnny  goes 
to  town  on  Monday,  on  jnirpose  to  call  on  Romney,  to  whom  he 
shall  give  all  proper  information  concerning  its  conveyance  hither. 
The  name  of  a  man  whom  I  esteem  as  I  do  Romney,  ought  not  to 
be  unmusical  in  my  ears,  but  his  name  will  be  so  till  I  shall  have 
paid  him  a  debt  justly  due  to  him,  by  doing  such  poetical  honours 
to  it  as  I  intend.  Heaven  knows  when  that  intention  will  be  exe- 
cuted, for  the  muse  is  still  as  obdurate  and  as  coy  as  ever. 

Your  kind  postscript  is  just  arrived,  and  gives  me  great  plea- 
sure. Wlien  I  cannot  see  you  myself,  it  seems  some  comfoi't,  how- 
ever, that  you  have  been  seen  by  another  known  to  me,  and  who 
will  tell  me,  in  a  few  days,  that  he  has  seen  you.  Your  wishes  to 
disperse  my  melancholy  would,  I  am  sui-e,  prevail,  did  that  event 
depend  on  the  warmth  and  sincerity  with  which  you  frame  them ; 
but  it  has  baffled  both  wishes  and  prayers,  and  those  the  most  fer- 
vent that  could  be  made,  so  many  years,  that  the  case  seems 
hopeless.     But  no  more  of  this  at  present. 

Your  verses  to  Austin  are  as  sweet  as  the  honey  that  they  ac- 
company ;  kind,  friendly,  witty,  and  elegant :  when  shall  I  be 
able  to  do  the  like !  Perhaps  when  my  Mary,  like  your  little  Tom, 
shall  cease  to  be  an  invalid,  I  may  recover  a  power,  at  Ic'.ist,  to 
do  something.  I  sincere!}'  rejoice  in  the  dear  little  man's  restora- 
tion.    My  Maiy  continues,  I  hope,  to  mend  a  little. 

W.  C. 


$2  LIFE  OF  COWPER, 

LETTER  XLVn. 
To  JOHN  JOHNSON,  Esquire. 

Weston,  Oct.  19,  1792. 
My  DEAREST  Johnny, 

You  are  too  useful  when  you  are  here  not 
to  be  missed  on  a  hundred  occasions  daily,  and  too  much  domes- 
ticated with  us  not  to  be  regretted  always.  I  hope,  therefore, 
that  your  month  or  six  weeks  will  not  be  like  many  that  I  have 
known,  capable  of  being  drawn  cut  into  any  length  whatever,  and 
productive  of  nothing  but  disappointment. 

I  have  done  nothing  since  you  went,  except  that  I  have  com- 
posed the  better  half  of  a  sonnet  to  Romney ;  yet  even  this  ought 
to  bear  an  earlier  date,  for  I  began  to  be  haunted  with  a  desire  to 
do  it  long  before  we  came  out  of  Sussex,  and  have  daily  attempted 
it  ever  since. 

It  would  be  well  for  the  reading  part  of  the  world,  if  the  writ- 
ing part  were,  many  of  them,  as  dull  as  I  am.  Yet  even  this 
small  produce,  which  my  sterile  intellect  has  hai-dly  yielded  at  last, 
may  serve  to  convince  j'ou  that  in  point  of  spirits  I  am  not  worse. 
In  fact,  I  am  a  little  better.  The  powders  and  the  laudanum 
together  have,  for  the  pi'esent  at  least,  abated  the  fever  that  con- 
sumes them ;  and  in  measure  as  the  fever  abates,  I  acquire  a  less 
discouraging  view  of  things,  and  with  it  a  little  power  to  exert 
myself. 

In  the  evenings  I  read  Baker's  Chronicle  to  Mrs.  Unwin,  hav- 
ing no  other  history,  and  hope  in  time  to  be  as  well  versed  in  it, 
as  his  admirer  Sir  Roger  de  Coverly. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  XL VIII. 
To  JOHN  JOHNSON,  Esquire. 

Weston,  Oct.  22,  1792. 
My  dearest  Johnny, 

Here  am  I  with  I  knov,^  now  not  how 
many  letters  to  answer,  and  no  time  to  do  it  in.  I  exhort  you, 
therefore,  to  set  a  proper  value  on  this,  as  proving  your  priority 
in  my  attentions,  though,  in  other  respects,  likely  to  be  of  little 
value. 

You  do  well  to  sit  for  your  picture,  and  give  very  sufficient  rea- 
sons for  doing  it.  You  will  also,  I  doubt  not,  take  care  that  when 
future  generations  shall  look  at  it,  some  spectator  or  other  shall 
say,  this  is  the  picture  of  a  good  man,  and  a  usefixl  one. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  53 

And  now  God  bless  you,  my  dear  Johnny.  I  proceed  pretty 
much  at  the  old  rate;  rising  cheerless  and  distressed  in  the  morn- 
;ng,  and  brightening  a  little  as  the  day  goes  on.     Adieu. 

vv.  c. 


LETTER  XLIX. 
To  WILLIAM  HxWLEY,  Esquire. 

IFeston,  October  28,  i792. 
Nothing  done,  my  dearest  brother,  nor 
likely  to  be  done  at  present ;  yet  I  purpose,  in  a  day  or  two,  to 
make  another  attempt,  to  which,  however,  I  shall  address  myself 
with  fear  and  trembling,  like  a  man  Avho,  having  sprained  his 
wrist,  di'eads  to  use  it.  I  have  not,  indeed,  like  such  a  man,  in- 
jured myself  by  any  extraordinary  exertion,  but  seem  as  much 
enfeebled  as  if  I  had.  The  consciousness  that  there  is  so  much  to 
do,  and  nothing  done,  is  a  burthen  that  I  am  not  able  to  bear. 
Milton,  especiahy,  is  my  grievance,  and  I  might  almost  as  well  be 
haunted  by  his  ghost,  as  goaded  with  such  continual  reproaches 
for  neglecting  him :  I  will  therefore  begin ;  I  will  do  my  best ;  and 
if,  after  all,  that  best  prove  good  for  nothing,  I  will  even  send  the 
notes,  worthless  as  they  are,  that  I  have  made  already;  a  mea- 
sure very  disagreeable  to  myself,  and  to  which  nothing  but  neces- 
sity shall  compel  me.  I  shall  rejoice  to  see  those  new  samples  of 
your  biography  which  you  give  me  to  expect. 

Allons  !  courage  ! — Here  comes  something,  however ;  produced 
after  a  gestation  as  long  as  that  of  a  pregnant  woman.  It  is  the 
debt  long  unpaid;  the  compliment  due  to  Romney;  and  if  it  has 
your  approbation,  I  will  send  it,  or  you  may  send  it  for  nie.  I 
must  pi-emise,  however,  that  I  intended  nothing  less  than  a  sonnet 
when  I  began.  I  know  not  why,  but  I  said  to  m.yself,  it  shall  not 
be  a  sonnet:  accordingly  I  attempted  it  in  one  sort  of  measure, 
tlicn  in  a  second,  then  in  a  third,  till  I  had  made  the  trial  in  half 
ii  dozen  different  kinds  of  shorter  verse,  and  behold  it  is  a  sonnet 
at  last.     The  fates  would  have  it  so. 


To  GEORGE  ROMNEY,  Esquire. 

Romney !  expert  infallible  to  trace, 
On  chart  or  canvass,  not  the  form  alone, 
And  'semblance,  but,  however  faintly  shown, 
The  nund'.s  impression  too  on  every  face: 


^  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

With  strokes  that  time  ought  never  to  erase, 
Thou  hast  so  pencil'd  mine,  that  though  I  ovm 
The  subject  worthless,  I  have  never  known 
The  artist  shining  witli  superior  grace. 

But  this  I  m  ark,  tliat  symptoms  none  of  woe 

In  thy  incomparable  work  appear : 

Well,  I  am  satisfied  it  should  be  so. 

Since,  on  maturer  thought,  the  cause  is  clear ; 

For  in  my  looks,  what  sorrow  could'st  thou  see, 
While  I  was  Hayley's  guest,  and  sat  to  thee  ? 


LETTER  L. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 
My  dear  Friend,  Westoii^  JVov.  9,  1792, 

I  wish  that  I  were  as  industrious,  and  as 
much  occupied  as  you,  though  in  a  different  way  ;  but  it  is  not  so 
with  me.  Mrs.Unwin's  great  debility  (who  is  not  yet  able  to  move 
without  assistance)  is  of  itself  a  hinderance  such  as  would  effec- 
tually disable  me.  Till  she  can  work  and  read,  and  fill  up  her 
time  as  usual,  (all  which  is  at  present  entirely  out  of  her  po%ver)  I 
may  now  and  then  find  time  to  write  a  letter,  but  I  shall  write  no- 
thing more.  I  cannot  sit  with  my  pen  in  my  hand,  and  my  books 
before  me,  while  she  is,  in  effect,  in  solitude,  silent  and  looking  at 
tlie  fire.  To  this  hinderance  that  other  has  been  added,  of  which 
yoti  are  already  aware,  a  want  of  spirits,  such  I  have  never  known, 
when  I  was  not  absolutely  laid  by,  since  I  commenced  an  author. 
How  long  I  shall  be  continued  in  these  uncomfortable  circumstances 
is  known  only  to  Him,  who,  as  he  will,  disposes  of  us  all.  I  may 
yet  be  able,  perhaps,  to  prepare  the  first  book  of  the  Paradise 
Lost  for  the  press  before  it  will  be  wanted ;  and  Jolmson  himself 
seems  to  think  there  will  be  no  haste  for  the  second.  But  poetry 
is  my  favourite  employment,  and  all  my  poetical  operations  are, 
in  the  mean  time,  suspended ;  for  while  a  work  to  which  I  ha^•c 
bound  myself  remains  unaccomplished,  I  can  do  nothing  else. 

Johnson's  phm  of  prefixing  my  pliiz  to  the  new  edition  of  my 
poems  is  by  no  means  a  pleasant  one  to  me  ;  and  so  I  told  him  in 
a  letter  I  sent  him  from  Earchan\,  in  which  I  assured  him  that  my 
objections  to  it  would  not  be  easily  surmounted.  But  if  you  judge 
that  it  may  really  have  an  effect  in  advancing  the  sale,  I  would 
not  be  so  squeamish  as  to  suffer  the  spirit  of  prudery  to  prevail  in 
Rre  to  his  disad\antage.    Somebody  told  an  author,  I  forget  whom, 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  55 

that  there  was  more  vanity  in  refusing  his  picture  than  in  grant- 
ing it,  on  which  he  instantly  complied.  I  do  not  perfectly  feel  all 
the  force  of  the  argument,  but  it  shall  content  me  that  he  did. 

I  do  most  sincerely  rejoice  in  the  success  of  your  publication,  and 
have  no  doubt  th.at  my  prophecy  concerning  your  success  in 
greater  matters  will  be  fulfilled.  We  are  naturally  pleased  when 
our  friends  approve  what  we  approve  ourselves  ;  how  nmch  then 
must  I  be  pleased  when  you  speak  so  kindly  of  Johnny  !  I  know 
him  to  be  all  that  you  think  him,  and  love  him  entirely. 

Adieu. .  We  expect  you  at  Christmas,  and  shall  therefore  re- 
joice when  Christmas  comes.     Let  nothing  interfere. 

Ever  yours,  W.  C- 


LETTER   LT. 

To  JOHN  JOHNSON,  Esquire. 
Mv  DEAREST  JoHNNY,  Weston,  MlV.  20,  1792. 

I  give  you  many  thanks  for  your  rhymes, 
and  for  your  verses  without  rhyme;  for  your  poetical  dialogue 
between  wood  and  stone ;  between  Homer's  head  and  the  head  of 
Samuel ;  kindly  intended,  I  know  well,  for  my  amusement,  and 
that  amused  me  much. 

The  successor  of  the  clei'k  defunct,  for  whom  I  used  to  write 
mortuary  verses,  ari'ived  here  this  morning,  with  a  recommen- 
datory letter  from  Joe  Rye,  and  an  humble  petition  of  his  own, 
intreating  me  to  assist  him  as  I  had  assisted  his  predecessor.  I  have 
undertaken  the  service,  although  with  no  little  reluctance,  being 
involved  in  many  arrears  on  other  subjects,  and  having  very  little 
dependance  at  present  on  my  ability  to  write  at  all.  I  proceed  ex- 
actly as  when  you  were  here — a  letter  now  and  tlien  before  break- 
fast, and  the  rest  of  my  time  all  holiday ;  if  holiday  it  may  be 
called,  that  is  spent  chiefly  in  moping  and  musing,  and  '■'•forecast- 
ing the  faahion  of  uncertain  evils." 

The  fever  on  my  spirits  has  harrasscd  me  much,  and  I  have 
never  had  so  good  a  night  nor  so  quiet  a  rising,  since  you  went,  as 
on  this  very  morning — a  relief  that  I  accoimt  pai'ticidarly  season- 
able and  propitious ;  because  1  had,  in  my  intentions,  devoted  this 
morning  to  you,  and  could  not  have  fulfilled  those  intentions  had  I 
l>cen  as  spiritless  as  I  generally  am. 

I  am  glad  that  Johnson  is  in  no  haste  for  Milton,  for  I  seem  my- 
self not  like!)  to  address  myself  presently  to  th.at  concern,  with 
any  pi'ospect  of  success ;  yet  something  now  and  then,  like  a  secret 
v.hibpct,  encourages  aiul  as'.ures  me  that  it  will  jet  be  done. 

W.  C. 


56  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 


LETTER  LIL 
To  WILLL4M  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

Weston,  A^ov.  22,  1792. 
How  shall  I  thank  you  enough  for  the  in- 
terest j-ou  take  in  my  future  Miltonic  labours,  and  the  assistance 
you  promise  me  in  the  performance  of  them?  I  will  some  time 
or  othei-,  if  I  live,  and  live  a  poet,  acknowledge  you?  friendship 
in  some  of  my  best  verse ;  the  mobt  suitable  return  one  poet  can 
make  to  another :  in  the  mean  time  I  love  you,  and  am  sensible 
of  all  your  kindness.  You  wish  me  warm  in  my  work,  and  I  ar- 
dently wish  the  same ;  but  when  I  shall  be  so,  God  only  knows. 
My  melancholy,  which  seemed  a  little  alleviated  for  a  few  days, 
has  gathered  about  me  again,  with  as  black  a  cloud  as  ever;  the 
consequence  is  absolute  incapacity  to  begin. 

I  was  for  some  years  Dirge -writer  to  the  town  of  Northampton, 
being  employed  by  the  clerk  of  the  principal  parish  there  to  fur- 
nish him  with  an  annual  copy  of  verses  proper  to  be  printed  at  the 
foot  of  his  bill  of  mortality.  But  the  clerk  died,  and  hearing 
nothing  for  two  years  from  his  successor,  I  well  hoped  tliat  I  was 
cut  of  my  office.  Ths  other  morning,  however,  Sam  announced 
the  new  clerk :  he  came  to  solicit  the  same  service  as  I  had  ren- 
dered to  his  predecessor,  and  I  reluctantly  complied;  doubtful, 
indeed,  whether  I  was  capable.  I  have,  however,  achieved  that 
labour,  and  I  have  done  nothing  more. — I  am  just  sent  for  up  to 
Mary,  dear  Mar) !  Adieu.  She  is  as  well  as  when  I  left  you — I 
•would  I  could  say  better.  Remember  us  both  affectionately  to 
your  sweet  iDoy,  and  trust  me  for  being  most  truly  yours, 

w.  c. 


LETTER  Lin. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,    Esquire. 

Weston,  Dec.  16,  1792. 
Mv  DEAR  Friend, 

We  differ  so  little  that  it  is  pity  we  should 
not  agree.  The  possibility  of  restoring  our  diseased  Govern- 
ment is,  I  think,  the  only  point  on  which  we  are  not  of  one  mind. 
If  you  are  right,  and  it  cannot  be  touched  in  the  medical  way 
without  danger  of  absolute  ruin  to  the  Constitution,  keep  the  Doc- 
tors at  a  distance,  say  I — and  let  us  live  as  long  as  we  can.  But 
perhaps  physicians  might  be  found  of  skill  sufficient  for  the  pur- 
pose, were  they  but  as  willing  as  able.  Who  are  they?  Not 
those  honest  blunderers  the  mcb,  but  our  governors  themselves. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  5? 

As  it  is  in  the  power  of  any  individual  to  be  honest  if  he  will,  any 
body  of  men  are,  as  it  seems  to  me,  equally  possessed  of  the  same 
option.  For  I  can  never  persuade  myself  to  think  the  world  so 
constituted  by  the  Author  of  it,  and  human  society,  which  is  his 
ordinance,  so  shabby  a  business,  that  the  buying  and  selling  of  votes 
and  consciences  should  be  essential  to  its  existence.  As  to  multi- 
plied representation,  I  know  not  that  I  foresee  any  great  advantage 
likely  to  arise  from  that.  Provided  there  be  but  a  reasonable  num- 
ber of  reasonable  heads  laid  together  for  the  good  of  the  nation, 
the  end  may  as  well  be  answered  by  five  hundred  as  it  would  be 
by  a  thousand,  and  perhaps  better.  But  then  they  should  be  honest 
as  well  as  wise ;  and  in  order  that  they  may  be  so,  they  should 
put  it  out  of  their  own  power  to  be  otherwise.  This  they  might 
certainly  do  if  they  would,  and  would  they  do  it,  I  am  not  con- 
vinced that  any  great  mischief  would  ensue.  You  say,  "  somebody- 
must  have  influence;"  but  I  see  no  necessity  for  it.  Let  integrity 
of  intention  and  a  due  share  of  ability  be  supposed,  and  the  influ- 
ence will  be  in  its  right  place ;  it  will  all  center  in  the  zeal  and  good 
of  the  nation.  Tliat  will  influence  their  debates  and  decisions,  and 
nothing  else  ought  to  do  it.  You  will  say,  perhaps,  that  wise  men, 
and  honest  men,  as  they  arc  supposed,  are  yet  liable  to  be  split  into 
almost  as  many  differences  of  opinion  as  there  are  individuals;  but 
I  rather  think  not.  It  is  observed  of  Prince  Eugene  and  the  Duke 
of  Marlborough,  that  each  always  approved  and  seconded  the 
plans  and  views  of  the  other ;  and  the  reason  given  for  it  is,  that 
they  were  men  of  equal  ability.  The  same  cause  that  could  make 
two  unanimous  would  make  twenty  so,  and  would  at  least  secure  a 
majority  among  as  many  liuridreds. 

As  to  the  reformation  of  the  church,  I  want  none,  unless  by  a 
better  provision  for  the  inferior  clergy ;  and  if  that  could  l^e 
brought  about  by  emaciating,  a  little  some  of  our  too  corpulent 
dignitaries,  I  should  be  well  contented. 

The  dissenters,  I  think,  catholics  and  others,  have  all  a  right 
to  the  privileges  of  all  other  Englishmen,  because  to  deprive  them 
is  persecution,  and  persecution  on  any  account,  but  especially  on  a 
religious  one,  is  an  abomination.  But,  after  all,  Valeat  Rcsfuibiica; 
I  love  my  country,  I  love  my  king,  and  I  wish  peace  and  prosperity 
to  Old  England.     Adieu, 

w.  c. 


.^8  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 


LETTER  LIV. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

/  Weston^  Dec.  26,  1792, 

That  I  may  not  be  silent  till  ray  silence 
alarms  you,  I  snatch  a  moment  to  tell  you  that,  although  toujours 
tri-'ite,  I  am  not  worse  than  usual ;  but  my  opportunities  of  writing 
are  pmicifiecl,  us  perhaps  Dr.  Johnson  would  have  dared  to  say, 
and  the  few  that  I  have  are  shortened  by  company. 
■  Give  my  love  to  dear  Tom,  and  thank  him  for  his  very  appo- 
site extract,  which  I  should  be  happy,  indeed,  to  turn  to  any  ac- 
count. How  often  do  I  v/ish,  in  the  course  of  every  day,  that  I 
could  be  employed  once  more  in  poetry ;  and  how  often,  of  course, 
that  this  Miltonic  trap  had  never  caught  me !  The  year  ninety- 
two  shall  stand  chronicled  in  my  remembrance  as  the  most  me- 
lancholy that  I  have  ever  known,  except  the  v/eeks  that  I  spent  at 
Eavtham  ;  and  such  it  has  been  principally,  because  being  engaged 
to  Milton,  I  felt  myself  no  longer  free  for  any  other  engagement. 
That  ill-fated  work,  impracticable  in  itself,  has  made  every  thing 
else  impracticable. 

*  *  *  *  I  am  very  Pindaric,  and  obliged  to  be  so  by 
the  hun-y  of  the  hour.  My  friends  are  come  down  to  break- 
fast.    Adieu,  VV.  C. 


LETTER  LV. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

JVeston,  Jan.  20,  1793. 
My  dearest  Brother, 

Now  I  know  that  you  are  safe,  I  treat 
you,  as  you  see,  with  a  philosophical  indifference,  not  acknow- 
ledging your  kind  and  immediate  answer  to  anxious  inquiries,  till 
it  suits  my  own  convenience.  I  have  learned,  however,  from  my 
late  solicitude,  that  not  only  you,  but  yours,  interest  me  to  a  de- 
gree that,  should  any  thing  happen  to  either  of  you,  would  be  very 
inconsistent  with  my  peace.  Sometimes  I  thought  that  you  were 
extremely  ill,  and  once  or  twice  that  you  were  dead.  As  often 
some  tragedy  reached  my  ear  concerning  little  Tom.  "  Oh  -varKZ 
ment.es  hominum  J"  How  liable  are  we  to  a  thousand  impositions, 
and  how  indebted  to  honest  old  Time,  who  never  fails  to  undeceive 
us !  WHiatever  you  had  in  pi-ospect,  you  acted  kindl}'  !)y  me  not  to 
make  me  partaker  of  your  expectations  ;  for  I  have  a  spirit,  if  not 
so  sanguine  as  j'ours,  yet  that  would  have  waited  for  your  coming 
with  anxious  impatience,  and  have  been  dismally  mortified  by  th# 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  59 

disappointment.  Had  you  come,  and  come  -vvithout  notice  too, 
you  would  not  have  surprised  us  more  than  (as  the  matter  Avas 
managed)  we  wei'e  surprised  at  the  arrival  of  y^ur  picture.  It 
leaclRd  us  in  the  evcninir,  after  the  shutters  were  closed,  at  a 
time  when  a  chaise  mip;ht  actually  have  brought  you  without  giving 
us  the  least  previous  intimation.  Then  it  was  that  Sainuel,  witli 
his  cheerful  countenance,  appeared  at  the  study  door,  and  with  a 
voice  as  cheerful  as  his  looks,  exclaimed,  "  Mr.  Hayley  is  come, 
Madam!"  We  both  started,  and  in  the  same  moment  cried, 
"  Mr.  Hayley  come  !  And  where  is  he  ?"  The  next  m.omcnt  cor- 
rected cur  mii^take,  and  finding  Mary's  voice  grow  suddenly  tre- 
mulous, I  turned,  and  saw  her  weeping. 

I  do  nothing, notwithstanding  all  your  exhortations:  my  idleness 
is  proof  against  them  all,  or,  to  speak  more  truly,  my  difficulties 
are  so.  Something  indeed  I  do.  I  play  at  push-pin  with  Homer 
every  morning  before  breakfast,  fingering  and  polishing,  as  Paris 
did  his  armour.  I  have  lately  had  a  letter  from  Dublin  on  that 
^sulycct,  which  has  pleased  me.  W.  C. 


LETTER  LVL 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

Weston,  Jan.  29,  1T93, 

Mv    DEAREST    HaYLEY, 

I  truly  sympathize  with  you  under  your 
Aveight  of  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  our  good  Samaritan.  But  be  not 
broken-hearted,  my  friend!  Remember,  the  loss  of  those  we  love 
is  the  condition  on  which  we  live  ourselves ;  and  that  he  who 
chooses  his  friends  wisely  frorn  among  the  excellent  of  the  earth, 
has  a  sure  ground  to  hope,  concerning  them,  when  they  die,  that 
a  merciful  God  has  made  them  far  happier  than  they  could  be 
here  ;  and  that  we  shall  join  them  soon  again.  This  is  solid  com- 
fort, could  we  but  avail  ourselves  of  it ;  but  I  confess  the  difficulty 
of  doing  so.  Sorrow  is  like  the  deaf  adder,  "  that  hears  not  the 
voice  of  the  charmer,  charm  he  ever  so  wisely;"  and  I  feel  so 
much  myself  for  the  death  of  Austin,  that  my  own  chief  consolation 
is,  that  I  had  never  seen  him.  Live  yourself,  I  beseech  you,  for  I 
have  seen  so  much  of  you,  that  I  can  by  no  means  spare  you  ;  and 
I  will  live  as  long  as  it  shall  please  God  to  permit  me :  I  know  you 
set  some  value  on  me,  therefore  let  that  promise  comfort  you  ;  and 
give  us  not  reason  to  say,  like  David's  servants, — "  \A'e  know  that 
it  would  have  pleased  thee  more  if  all  we  had  died,  than  this  one, 
for  whom  thou  art  inconsolable."  You  have  still  Romney,  and 
(^arwarcline,  nnd  Guy,  and  mc,  my  poor  Mary,  and  I  know  not 


^0  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

how  many  beside ;  as  many,  I  suppose,  as  ever  had  an  opportunity 
of  spending  a  day  with  you.  He  who  has  the  most  friends  must 
necessarily  lose  the  most,  and  he  whose  friends  are  numerous  as 
yours,  may  the  better  spare  a  part  of  them.  It  is  a  changing, 
transient  scene :  yet  a  little  while,  and  this  poor  dream  of  life  will 
be  over  with  all  of  us.  The  living,  andthey  who  live  unhappy — i 
they  are  indeed  subjects  of  son-ow.  Adieu,  my  beloved  friend. 
Ever  yours.  W.  C. 


LETTER  LVn. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

Weston^  Feb.  5,  1793, 
In  this  last  revisal  of  my  work  (the  Ho-<i 
mer)  I  have  made  a  number  of  small  improvements,  and  am  now 
more  convinced  than  ever,  having  exercised  a  cooler  judgment 
upon  it  than  before  I  could,  that  the  translation  will  make  its  way. 
There  must  be  time  for  the  conquest  of  vehement  and  long-rooted 
prejudice;  but  without  much  self-partiality,  I  believe  that  the 
conquest  will  be  made,  and  am  certain  that  I  should  be  of  the 
same  opinion,  were  the  work  another  man's.  I  shall  soon  have 
finished  the  Odyssey,  and  when  I  have,  will  send  the  corrected 
copy  of  both  to  Johnson.     Adieu.  W.  C. 

LETTER  LVIII. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

Westorj,  Feb,  10,  1793. 

My  pens  are  all  split,  and  my  ink-glass  is  dry ; 
Neither  wit,  common  sense,  nor  ideas  have  L 

In  vain  has  it  been  that  I  have  made  several  attempts  to  write 
since  I  left  Sussex:  unless  more  comfortable  days  arrive  than  I 
have  the  confidence  to  look  for,  there  is  an  end  of  all  writing  with 
me.  I  have  no  spirits.  Wlien  the  Rose  came,  I  was  obliged  to 
prepare  for  his  coming  by  a  nightly  dose  of  laudanum-^twelve 
chops  suffice;  but  without  them  I  am  devoured  by  melancholy. 

Apropos  of  the  Rose !  Plis  wife,  in  her  political  notions,  is  the 
exact  counterpart  of  yourself — loyal  in  the  extreme.  Therefore, 
if  ycu  find  her  thus  inclined,  when  you  become  acquainted  widi 
her,  you  must  not  place  her  resemblance  cf  yourself  to  the  accoujit 
of  her  admiration  of  you,  for  she  is  your  likeness  ready  made.  In 
fact,  we  are  all  of  one  mind  about  go\ernmcut  matters,  and  not- 
>vidistanding  your  opinion,  the  Rose  is  himself  a  whig,  and  I  am 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  61 

a  whig,  and  you,  my  dear,  are  a  tory,  and  all  thetoricsnow-a-days 
call  all  the  whigs  republicans.  How  the  deuce  you  came  to  be  a 
tory  is  best  known  to  yourself:  you  have  to  answer  for  this  novety 
to  the  sliades  of  your  ancestors,  who  were  alwajs  vv'higs  ever  since 
we  had  any.     Adieu.  \V.  C. 


LETTER  LIX. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

Feb.  17,  1793. 
I  have  read  the  critique  of  my  work  in 
the  Analytical  Review,  and  am  happy  to  have  fallen  into  the  hands 
of  a  critic,  rigorous  enough  indeed,  but  a  scholar,  and  a  mm  of 
sense,  and  who  does  not  deliberately  intend  me  mischief.  I  am 
better  pleased,  indeed,  that  he  censures  some  things,  than  I  should 
have  been  with  unmixt  commendation  ;  for  his  centure  (to  use  the 
new  diplomatic  term)  will  accredit  his  prai.es.  In  his  particular 
remarks  he  is  for  the  most  part  right,  and  I  shall  be  the  better  for 
them  ;  but  in  liis  general  ones  I  think  he  asserts  too  largely,  and 
more  than  he  could  prove.  With  respect  to  inversions  in  parti- 
cular, I  know  that  they  do  not  abound.  Once  they  did,  and  I  had 
Milton's  example  for  it,  not  disapproved  by  Addison.     But  on 

's  remonstrance  against  them,  I  expunged  the  most,  and 

in  my  new  edition  shall  have  fewer  still.  I  know  that  they  give 
dignity,  and  am  sorry  to  part  with  them ;  but,  to  parody  an  old 
pro\erb,  lie  who  lives  in  the  year  ninety -three,  must  do  as  in  the 
year  ninety-three  is  done  by  others.  The  same  remark  I  have  to 
make  on  his  censin-e  of  inharmonious  lines.  I  know  theni  to  be 
much  fewer  than  he  asserts,  and  not  more  in  number  than  I  ac- 
counted indispensibly  necessary  to  a  due  variation  of  cadence.  I 
have,  however,  now,  in  conformity  with  modem  taste  (over-much 
tlelicate  in  my  mind)  given  to  the  far  greater  number  of  them  a 
ilow  as  smooth  as  oil.  A  few  I  retain,  and  will,  in  compliment  to 
my  own  judgment.  He  thinks  me  too  faithful  to  compound  cpidiets 
in  the  introductory  lines,  and  I  know  his  reason.  He  fears  lest  the 
English  reader  should  blame  Homer,  whom  he  idolizes,  though 
hardly  more  than  I,  for  such  constant  repetition.  But  them  I 
sliall  not  alter.  They  are  necessary  to  a  just  representation  of 
the  original.  In  the  affair  of  Outis,  I  shall  throw  him  flat  on  his 
back,  by  an  tnianswerable  argument,  which  I  shall  give  in  a  note, 
and  with  which  I  am  furnislied  i)y  Mrs.  Unwin.  So  much  for 
hypei'criticism,  which  has  run  away  with  all  my  paper.      This 

critic,  by  the  way,  is; .— .;  I  know  himbv  infallible  indications. 

W.  C. 


62  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

LETTER  LX. 

To  the  Reverend  Mr.  HURDIS. 

Weston,  Feb.  23,  ir93» 
My  eyes,  Avhich  have  long  been  much 
inflamed,  will  hardly  serve  me  for  Homer,  and  oblige  me  to  make 
all  my  letters  short.  You  have  obliged  me  much,  by  sending  me 
so  speedily  the  remainder  of  your  notes.  I  h.ive  begun  with  them 
again,  and  find  them,  as  before,  very  much  to  the  purpose.  More 
to  the  pur[3ose  they  could  not  have  been,  had  you  been  poetry 
professor  alread)^.  I  rejoice  sincerely  iil  the  prospect  you  have  of 
that  office,  which,  wliatever  may  be  your  own  thoughts  of  the  matter, 
J  am  sure  ycu  will  fill  with  great  sufficiency.  Would  that  my 
interest  and  power  to  serve  you  were  greater  !  One  string  to  my 
bow  I  have,  and  one  only,  which  shall  not  be  idle  for  want  of  my 
exertions.  I  thank  you,  likewise,  for  your  very  entertaining  notices 
and  remarks  in  the  natural  way.  The  hurry  in  which  I  write 
■would  not  suffer  me  to  send  you  many  in  return,  had  I  many  to 
send,  but  only  two  or  three  present  themselves. 

Frogs  will  feed  on  worms.  I  saw  a  frog  gathering  into  his  gul- 
let an  earth-worm  as  long  as  himself:  it  cost  him  time  and  labour, 
but  at  last  he  succeeded. 

Mrs.  Unwin  and  I,  crossing  a  brook,  saw  from  the  foot-bridge 
somewhat  at  the  bottom  of  the  water,  which  had  the  appearance 
of  a  flower.  Observing  attentively,  we  found  that  it  consisted  of 
a  circular  assemblage  of  minnows;  their  heads  all  met  in  a  center, 
and  their  tails  diverging  at  equal  distances,  and  being  elevated 
above  their  heads,  ga\  e  them  the  appearance  of  a  flower  half 
blov/n.  One  was  longer  than  the  rest,  and  as  often  as  a  straggler 
came  in  sight,  he  quitted  his  place  to  pursue  him,  and  having 
driven  him  away,  he  returned  to  it  again,  no  other  minnow  offer- 
ing to  take  it  in  his  absence.  This  we  saw  him  do  several  times. 
The  object  that  had  attached  them  ail  was  a  dead  minnow,  which 
they  seemed  to  be  devouring. 

After  a  very  rainy  da)^,  I  saw  on  one  of  the  flower  borders 
what  seemed  a  Jong  hair,  but  it  had  a  waving  twining  motion. 
Considering  more  nearly,  I  found  it  alive,  and  endued  with  spon- 
taneity, but  could  not  discover  at  the  ends  of  it  either  head  or  tail, 
or  any  distinction  of  parts.  I  carried  it  into  the  house,  when  the 
air  of  a  warm  room  dried  and  killed  it  presently, 

W.  C. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  63 


LETTER  LXL 
To  WILLL\M  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

Weston,  Feb.  24,  1793. 
Your  letter,  so  full  of  kindness,  and  so 
exactly  in  unison  with  my  own  feelings  for  you,  should  have  had, 
es  it  deserved  to  have,  an  eai'lier  answer,  had  I  not  been  perpe- 
tually tormented  witli  infiamed  eyes,  which  are  a  sad  hinderance 
to  me  in  every  thing.  But,  to  make  amends,  if  I  do  net  send  you 
an  early  answer,  I  send  you  at  least  a  speedy  one,  being  obliged  to 
write  as  fast  as  my  pen  can  trot,  that  1  may  shorten  the  time  of 
poring  upon  paper  as  much  as  possible.  Homer,  too,  has  been 
another  hinderance,  for  always  when  I  can  see,  which  is  only  dur- 
ing about  tv/o  hours  in  a  morning,  and  not  at  all  by  candle  light,  I 
devote  myself  to  him,  being  Lu  haste  to  send  him  a  second  time  to 
tlie  press,  that  nothing  may  stand  in  tlie  way  of  Milton.  By  the 
way,  where  are  my  dear  Tom's  remarks,  which  I  long  to  have, 
and  must  have  soon,  or  they  will  come  too  late  ? 

Oh  you  rogue,  what  would  you  give  to  have  such  a  dre-Am  about 
IVIilton,  as  I  had  about  a  week  since?  I  dream.ed  that,  beiig  in  a 
house  in  the  city,  and  with  much  company,  looking  towards  the 
lower  end  of  the  room  from  the  upper  end  of  it,  I  descried  a 
figure,  which  I  immediately  knew  to  be  Milton's.  He  was  very 
gravely,  but  very  neatly  attired  in  the  fashion  of  his  day,  and  ha^ 
A  countenance  which  filled  me  with  those  feelings  that  an  aifec- 
tionate  child  has  for  a  beloved  father ;  such,  for  instance,  as  Tom 
has  for  you.  My  first  thought  was  wonder,  where  he  could  have 
been  concealed  so  many  years :  my  second,  a  transport  of  joy  to 
find  him  still  alive  :  my  tliird,  another  transport  to  find  myself  in 
his  company ;  and  my  fourth,  a  resolution  to  accost  him  :  I  did  «o, 
and  he  received  me  with  a  complacence,  in  which  I  saw  equal 
sweetness  and  dignity.  I  spoke  of  his  Paradise  Lost,  as  every 
man  must  who  is  wordiy  to  speak  of  it  at  all,  and  told  him  a  long 
story  of  the  manner  in  wliich  it  affected  me,  when  I  first  discovered 
it,  being  at  that  time  a  school-boy.  He  answered  me  by  a  smile, 
and  a  gentle  inclination  of  his  head.  He  then  grasped  my  hand  af- 
fectionately, and  with  a  smile  that  charmed  me,  said,  "  well,  you 
for  your  part  will  do  well  also."  At  last,  recollecting  his  great  age, 
(for  I  understood  him  to  be  two  hundred  years  old)  I  feared  that  I 
might  fatigue  him  by  much  talking.  I  took  my  leave,  and  he  took 
his  Avith  an  air  of  the  most  perfect  good  breeding.  His  person, 
his  fe;:ture<!,  his  manner,  were  all  so  perfectly  characteristic,  that 
I  am  persuaded  an  appariti-snof  hin\  could  not  represent  him  more 
completely.  This  may  be  said  to  have  been  one  of  the  dreams  of 
Pindus,  may  it  not  ? 


64  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

How  truly  I  rejoice  that  you  ha^  e  recovered  Guy :  that  man 
won  my  heart  the  moment  I  saw  him  :  give  my  love  to  him,  and 
teil  h  m  I  am  truly  glad  he  is  alive  again. 

There  is  much  sweetness  in  those  lines  from  the  Sonneteer  of 
Avon,  and  not  a  little  in  dear  Tom's;  an  earnest,  I  trust,  of  good 
things  to  come. 

With  Mary's  kind  love,  I  must  now  conclude  mj^self,  my  dear 
brother,  ever  yours,  LIPPUS. 


LETTER  LXII. 
To  Mr.  THOMAS  HAYLEY. 

Weston,  March  14,  1793. 
My  dear  little  Critic, 

I  thank  you  heartily  for  your  observations, 
on  Avhich  I  set  a  higher  value ,  because  they  have  instructed  me  as 
much,  and  have  entertained  me  more,  than  all  the  other  strictures 
of  our  public  judges  in  these  matters.  Perhaps  I  am  not  much 
more  pleased  with  shameless  ivolf.  Sec.  than  you.  But  what  is  to 
be  done,  my  little  man  ?  Coarse  as  the  expressions  are,  they  ai'e 
no  more  than  equivalent  to  those  of  Homer.  The  invective  of  the 
ancients  was  never  tempered  with  good  manners,  as  your  papa  can 
tell  you  ;  and  my  business,  you  know,  is  not  to  be  moi-e  polite  than 
iny  author,  but  to  represent  him  as  closely  as  I  can. 

Dishonour  'd  foul  I  have  wiped  away,  for  the  reason  you  givc» 
which  is  a  very  just  one,  and  the  present  reading  is  this  ; 

Who  had  dared  dishonour  thus 
The  life  itself.  Sec. 

Your  objection  to  kindler  of  the  fres  of  hea-ven  I  had  the  good 
fortune  to  anticipate,  and  expunged  the  dirty  ambiguity  some  time 
since,  wondering  not  a  little  that  I  had  ever  admitted  it. 

The  fault  you  find  with  the  two  first  verses  of  Nestor's  speech 
discovers  such  a  degree  of  just  discernment,  that  but  for  your  pa- 
pa's assurance  to  the  contrary,  I  must  have  suspected  him  as  the 
author  of  that  remark.  Much  as  I  should  have  respected  it,  if  it 
had  been  so,  I  value  it,  I  assure  you,  my  little  friend,  still  more  as 
yours.     In  the  new  edition,  the  passage  will  be  found  thus  altered : 

Alas  !  great  sorrow  falls  on  Greece  to-day. 
Priam,  and  Priam's  sons,  with  all  in  Troy — 
Oh  !  hr^w  will  they  exult,  and  in  their  hearts 
Triumph,  once  hearing  of  this  broil  between 
The  prime  of  Gi'cecc,  in  coimcil,  and  in  arms  I 


LIFE  OF  COVVPER.  6S 

VV'hcrc  the  word  reel  suggests  to  you  the  idea  of  a  drunken 
mountahi,  it  ijerforms  the  service  to  which  I  destined  it.  It  is  a 
bold  metaphor ;  but  justified  by  one  of  the  subhmest  passages  in 
scripture,  compared  with  the  subUmity  of  which  even  tliat  of 
Homer  suffers  humiliation. 

It  is  God  himself,  who  speaking,  I  think,  by  the  prophet  Isaiah, 
says, 

"  The  earth  shall  reel  to  and  fro  like  a  drunkard." 

With  equal  boldness  in  the  same  scripture,  the  poetry  of  which 
was  never  equalled,  mountains  are  said  to  skip,  to  break  out  into 
singing,  and  the  fields  to  clap  their  hands.  I  intend,  therefore, 
that  my  Olympus  shall  be  still  tipsy. 

The  accuracy  of  your  last  remark,  in  which  you  convicted  me 
of  a  bull,  delights  me.  A  fig  for  all  critics  but  you  !  The  blockheads 
could  not  find  it.     It  shall  stand  thus  : 

First  spake  Polydamas 

Homer  was  more  upon  his  guard  than  to  commit  such  a  blunder, 
for  he  says, 

And  now,  my  dear  little  censor,  once  more  accept  my  thanks. 
I  only  regret  that  your  strictures  are  so  few,  being  just  and  sensible 
as  they  arc. 

Tell  your  papa  that  he  shall  hear  from  me  soon :  accept  mine, 
and  my  dear  invalid's  affectionate  remembrances.     Ever  yours, 

W.  C* 


*  tinte  hy  the  Edllor. — This  letter  mny  be  regarded  as  a  remarkable  proof  of  the  great 
poet's  indulgent  sweetness  of  temper,  in  favouring  the  literary  talents  of  a  child.  A  good 
natured  reader  will  hardly  blame  the  parental  partiality  to  a  dear  departed  scholar,  which  in- 
duces me  to  insert  in  this  note  the  letter  Cowpcr  answered  so  kindly — a  letter  that  readers, 
accustomed  to  contemplate  the  compositions  of  childhood,  may  consider,  perhaps,  as  a  curio- 
sity, when  they  are  assured,  as  they  are  with  perfect  truth,  that  every  syllable  of  the  letter, 
and  of  the  criticisms  annexed  to  it,  v^cre  the  voluntary  and  uncorrected  production  of  a  bojj 
wliose  age  was  little  more  than  twelve  years. 

To  WILLIAM  COWPER,  Esquire. 

Edrlham,  March  4,  1793. 
Honoured  King  of  Bards  I 

Since  you  deign  to  demand  the  observations  of  an  humble 

and  unexperienced  servant  of  yours,  on  a  work  of  one  who  is  so  much  his  superior,  (as  he  is 

ever  ready  to  serve  you  with  all  his  might)  behold  what  you  demand!     But  let  me  desire  you 

not  to  censure  mc  for  my  unskilful,  aud,  perhaps,  (as  they  will  nndoubtodly  appear  to  you) 

VOL.  II.  K 


66  LIFE  OF  COWPERr 

LETTER   LXIIL 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 
My  DEAR  Brother,  Weston,  March  19,  1793", 

I  am  so  busy  every  morning  before 
breakfast  (my  only  opportunity)  stalking  and  strutting  in  Homeric 
stilts,  that  you  ought  to  account  it  an  instance  of  marvellous  grace 
and  favour  that  I  condescend  to  write  even  to  you.  Sometimes  I 
am  seriously  almost  crazed  with  the  multiplicity  of  matters  before 
me,  and  the  little  or  no  time  that  I  have  for  them  ;  and  sometimes 
I  repose  myself,  after  the  fatigue  of  that  distraction,  on  the  pillow 
of  despair;  a  pillow  which  has  often  served  me  in  time  of  need, 
and  is  become,  by  frequent  use,  if  not  very  comfortable,  at  least 
convenient.  So  i-eposed,  I  laugh  at  the  world  and  say,  "  yes,  you 
may  gape  and  expect  both  Homer  and  Milton  from  me,  but  I'll  be 
hanged  if  you  ever  get  them." 

In  Homer  you  must  know  I  am  advanced  as  far  as  the  fifteenth- 
book  of  the  Iliad,  leaving  nothing  behind  me  that  can  reasonably 
offend  the  most  fastidious;  and  I  design  him  for  public  appearance 
in  his  new  dress  as  soon  as  possible,  for  a  reason  which  any  poet 
maj^  guess,  if  he  will  bvit  thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket. 

You  forbid  me  to  tantalize  you  with  an  invitation  to  Weston, 
and  yet  invite  me  to  Eartham.  No,  no ;  there  is  no  such  happi- 
ness in  store  for  me  at  present.  Had  I  rambled  at  all,  I  was  under 
promise  to  all  my  dear  mother's  kindred  to  go  to  Norfolk,  and  they 
are  dying  to  see  me :  but  I  have  told  them  that  die  they  must,  for  I 
cannot  go ;  and  ergo,  as  you  will  perceive,  can  go  no  where  else. 

Thanks  for  Mazarine's  epitaph:  it  is  full  of  witty  paradox,  and 
is  written  with  a  force  and  severity  Avhich  sufficiently  bespeak  the 
author.  I  account  it  an  inestimable  curiosity,  and  shall  be  happy, 
when  time  shall  serve,  with  your  aid,  to  make  a  good  translation, 
of  it.  But  that  will  be  a  stubborn  business.  Adieu.  The  clock 
strikes  eight — And  novv^  for  Homer., 

W.  C. 

ridiculous  observations;  but  be  so  kind  as  to  receive  tiicm  as  a  mark  of  respectful  affection 

from  your  obedient  servant, 

THOMAS  HAYLEY. 

Buok.     Line. 

i.  184 1  cannot  reconcile  myself  to  tliese  expressions,  viz.  "  Ah,  cloth'd  with  im- 

193  pudeiice,"  &c.  and  "  shameless  wolf,"  and  (U'6)  "  face  of  fliut." 

i.  SOS "  Dishonour'd  foul"  is,  in  my  opinion,  an  uncleanly  expression, 

i.  fijl "  Rcel'd,"  I  think,  nukes  it  appear  as  if  Olympus  was  Jiunk. 

i.  749 "  Kindler  of  the  fires  in  heaven,"  I  think,  makes  Jupiter  appear  too  much- 

like  a  lamp-lighter. 

ii.         317  to  3 19 — These  lines  are,  in  my  opinion,  below  the  elevated  genius  of  Mr.Cowper. 

xv'Jii.  300  to  304— This  appears  to  nie  rather  Irish,  since  in  line  300  you  say  "  no  one  car," 
and  iu  line  301,  "  Polydanias  rose." 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  &r 

LETTER  LXIV. 

To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

TJie  Lodge,  March  27,  1793. 
My  dear  Friend, 

I  must  send  you  a  line  of  congratulation 
on  the  event  of  your  transaction  with  Johnson,  since  you,  I  know, 
partake  with  me  in  the  pleasure  I  receive  from  it.  Few  of  my 
concerns  have  been  so  happily  concluded.  I  am  now  satisfied  with 
my  bookseller,  as  I  have  substantial  cause  to  be,  and  account  my- 
self in  good  hands ;  a  cii'cum  stance  as  pleasant  to  me  as  any  other 
part  of  the  business  ;  for  I  love  dearly  to  be  able  to  confide,  with 
all  my  heart,  in  those  with  whom  I  am  connected,  of  what  kind 
soever  the  connection  may  be. 

The  question  of  printing  or  not  printing  the  alterations  seems 
difficult  to  decide.  If  they  are  not  printed,  I  shall,  perhaps,  dis- 
oblige some  purchasers  of  the  first  edition ;  and  if  they  are,  many 
others  of  them,  perhaps  a  great  majority,  will  never  care  about 
them.  As  far  as  I  have  gone  I  have  made  a  fair  copy,  and  when 
I  have  finished  the  whole,  will  send  them  to  Johnson,  together  with 
the  interleaved  volumes.  He  will  see,  in  a  few  minutes,  what  it 
•will  be  best  to  do,  and  by  his  judgment  I  shall  be  determined. 
The  opinion  to  which  I  most  incline  is,  that  they  ought  to  be 
printed  separately,  for  they  are  many  of  them  rather  long,  here 
and  there  a  whole  speech,  or  a  whole  simile ;  and  the  verbal  and 
lineal  variations  are  so  numerous,  that  altogether,  I  apprehend, 
they  will  give  a  new  air  to  the  work,  and,  I  hope,  a  much  im- 
proved one. 

I  forgot  to  say  in  tlic  proper  place,  that  some  notes,  although 
but  very  few,  I  have  added  already,  and  may  perhaps  see  here  and 
there  opportunity  for  a  few  more.  But  notes  being  little  wanted, 
especially  by  people  at  aU  conversant  with  classical  literature,  as 
most  readers  of  Homer  are,  I  am  persuaded  that,  were  they  nume- 
rous, they  would  be  deemed  an  incumberance.  I  shall  write  to 
Jolmson  soon,  ix;rhaps  to-morrow,  and  then  shall  say  the  same 
tiling  to  him. 

In  point  of  health  we  continue  much  tlie  same.  Our  united  love, 
and  many  thanks  for  your  ])rosperous  negociations,  attend  yom'scU' 
and  whole  famil}-,  and  especially  my  little  name-sake.     Adieu. 

^V.  C. 


6^  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 


LETTER  LXV. 
To  JOHN  JOHNSON,  Esquire. 

The  Lodge,  Afiril  11,  l^QS. 
My  dearest  Johnny, 

The  long  ntmster-roll  of  my  great  and 
small  ancestors,  I  signed  and  dated,  and  sent  up  to  Mr.  Blue- 
mantle,  on  Monday,  according  to  your  desire.  Such  a  pompous 
affair,  drawn  out  for  my  sake,  reminds  me  of  the  old  fable  of  the 
mountain  in  parturition  and  a  mouse  the  produce.  Rest  imdis- 
turbed,  say  I,  their  lordly,  ducal,  and  royal  dust  1  Had  they  left 
me  something  handsome,  I  should  have  respected  them  more. 
But  perhaps  they  did  not  know  that  such  a  one  as  I  should  have 
the  honour  to  be  numbered  among  their  descendants.  Well,  I 
have  a  little  bookseller  that  makes  me  some  amends  for  their  de- 
ficiency. He  has  made  me  a  present;  an  act  of  liberality  which 
I  take  every  opportunity  to  blazon,  as  it  well  deserves.  But  you, 
I  suppose,  have  learned  it  already  from  Mr.  Rose. 

Fear  not,  my  man.  Yqu  will  acquit  yourself  very  well,  I  dare 
say,  both  in  standing  for  your  degree,  and  when  you  have  gained 
it.  A  little  tremor,  and  a  little  shamefacedness  in  a  stripling,  like 
you,  are  recommendations  rather  than  otherwise;  and  so  they 
ought  to  be,  being  s}-mptoms  of  an  ingenuous  mind,  rather  unfre- 
quent  in  this  age  of  brass. 

What  you  say  of  your  determined  purpose,  with  God's  help,  to 
take  up  the  cross  and  despise  the  shame,  gives  us  both  real  plea- 
sure. In  our  pedigree  is  found  one,  at  least,  who  did  it  before 
you.  Do  you  the  like ;  and  you  will  meet  him  in  heaven,  as  sure 
as  the  scripture  is  the  word  of  God. 

The  quarrel  that  the  world  has  with  evangelical  men  and  doc- 
trines, they  would  have  with  a  host  of  angels  in  the  human  form  ; 
for  it  is  the  quarrel  of  owls  with  sunshine,  of  ignorance  with  di- 
vine illumination. 

Adieu,  my  dear  Johnny.  \^'e  shall  expect  you  with  earnest  de- 
sire at  your,  coming,  and  receive  you  with  much  delight. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  LXVI. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

Weston,  April  23,  1793. 
My  dear  Friend  and  Brother, 

Better  late  than  never,  and  better  a  little 
tjljan  none  at  all !   Had  I  been  at  liljerty  to  consult  my  Inclinations; 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  69 

I  would  have  ans-^vercd  your  truly  kind  and  affectionate  letter  im- 
uiediatel}-.  But  I  am  the  busiest  man  alive,  and  when  this  epistle 
is  dispatched,  you  will  be  the  only  one  of  my  correspondents  to 
whom  I  shall  not  be  indebted.  \Miile  I  write  this,  my  poor  Mary- 
sits  mute ;  which  I  cannot  well  bear,  and  which,  together  with 
want  of  time  to  write  much,  will  have  a  curtailing  effect  on  my 
epistle. 

My  only  studying  time  is  still  given  to  Homer,  not  to  correction 
and  amendment  of  him,  for  that  is  all  over,  but  to  writing  notes. 
Johnson  has  expressed  a  wish  for  some,  that  the  unlearned  may 
be  a  little  illuminated  concerning  classical  story  and  the  mythology 
of  the  ancients ;  and  his  behaviour  to  me  has  been  so  liberal  that 
I  can  refuse  him  nothing.  Poking  into  the  old  Greek  commenta- 
tors blinds  me.     But  it  is  no  matter  :  I  am  the  more  like  Homer. 

Ever  yours,  my  dearest  Hayley,  W.  C. 

LETTER  LXVIL 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 
My  dear  Friekd,  May  5,  1793. 

My  delay  to  answer  your  last  kind  letter, 
to  which  likewise  you  desired  a  speedy  reply,  must  have  seemed 
rather  difficult  to  explain  on  any  other  supposition  than  that  of  ill- 
ness. But  illness  has  not  been  the  cause,  although,  to  say  the  truth, 
I  caimot  boast  of  having  been  lately  very  well.  Yet  has  not  this 
been  the  cause  of  my' silence,  but  your  own  advice,  very  proper, 
and  earnestly  given  tome,  to  proceed  in  the  revisal  of  Homer.  To 
this  it  is  owing  that,  instead  of  giving  an  hour  or  two  before 
breakfast  to  my  correspondents,  I  allot  that  time  entirely  to  my 
studies.  I  have  neai-ly  given  the  last  touches  to  the  poetry,  and 
am  now  busied,  far  more  laboriously,  in  writing  notes  at  the  request 
of  my  honest  bookseller,  transmitted  to  me  in  the  first  instance  by 
you,  and  afterward  repeated  l)y  himself.  I  am,  thei'efore,  deep 
in  the  old  scholia,  and  have  advanced  to  the  latter  part  of  Iliad 
nine,  explaining,  as  I  go,  such  passages  as  may  be  difficult  to  un- 
learned readers,  and  such  only :,  for  notes  of  that  kind  are  the 
notes  that  Johnson  desired.  I  find  it  a  more  laborious  task  than  the 
translation  was,  and  shall  be  heartily  glad  when  it  is  over.  In 
the  mean  time,  all  the  letters  I  receive  remain  unanswered,  or  if 
they  receive  an  answer,  it  is  always  a  short  one.  Such  this  must 
be.     Johnny  is  here,  having  flown  over  London. 

Homer,  I  believe,  will  make  a  much  more  respectable  api)car- 
ance  than  Ijefore.  Johnson  now  thinks  it  will  be  right  to  make  a 
separate  impression  of  the  amendments. 

W.  C. 


TO  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

I  breakfast  every  morning  on  seven  or  eight  pages  of  the  Greek 
commentators:  for  so  much  I  am  obliged  to  read  in  order  to 
select,  perhaps,  tliree  or  four  short  notes  for  the  readers  of  my 
translation. 

Homer  is  indeed  a  tie  upon  me  that  must  not,  on  any  account, 
be  broken  till  all  his  demands  are  satisfied  :  though  I  have  fancied, 
•while  the  revisal  of  the  Odyssey  was  at  a  distance,  that  it  would  ask. 
less  labour  in  the  finishing,  it  is  not  unlikely  that,  when  I  take  it 
actually  in  hand,  I  may  find  myself  mistaken.  Of  this,  at  least,  I 
am  sure,  that  uneven  verse  abounds  much  more  in  it  than  it  once 
•did  in  the  Iliad,  Yet  to  the  latter  the  critics  objected  on  that  ac- 
count, though  to  the  former  never  ;  perhaps  because  they  had  not 
read  it.  Hereafter  they  shall  not  quarrel  with  me  on  that  score. 
The  Iliad  is  now  all  smooth  turnpike,  and  I  will  take  equal  care 
that  there  shall  be  no  jolts  in  the  Odyssey. 


LETTER  LXVin. 
To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  May  7,  1793. 
My  dearest  Coz. 

You  have  thought  me  long  silent,  and  so 
have  many  others.  In  fact,  I  have  not  for  many  months  written 
punctually  to  any  but  yourself  and  Hayley.  My  time,  the  little  I 
have,  is  so  engrossed  with  Homer,  that  I  have  at  this  moment  a 
bundle  of  unanswered  letters  by  me,  and  letters  likely  to  be  so. 
Thou  knowest,  I  dare  say,  what  it  is  to  have  a  head,  weary  with 
thinking.  Mine  is  so  fatigued  by  breakfast-time,  three  days  out  of 
four,  I  am  utterly  incapable  of  sitting  down  to  my  desk  again  for 
any  purpose  v/hatever. 

I  am  glad  I  have  convinced  thee,  at  last,  that  thou  art  a  toiy. 
Your  friend's  definition  of  whig  and  tory  may  be  just,  for  aught  I 
know,  as  far  as  the  latter  are  concerned ;  but,  respecting  the  for- 
mer I  think  him  mistaken.  There  is  no  inie  whig  who  wishes 
all  power  in  the  hands  of  his  own  party.  The  division  of  it,  which 
the  lawyers  call  tripartite,  is  exactly  what  he  desires ;  and  he 
would  have  neither  King,  Lords  nor  Commons  unequally  trusted, 
or  in  the  smallest  degree  predominant.  Such  a  whig  am  I,  and 
such  whigs  are  the  tnie  friends  of  the  constitution. 

Adieu,  my  dear :  I  am  dead  with  weariness. 

vv.  c. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  71 


LETTER  LXIX. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

AFaij  21,  1793. 

My  DEAREST  Brother, 

You  must  eithei'  think  me  extremely  idle 
or  extremely  busy,  that  I  have  made  your  last  very  kind  letter 
wait  so  very  long  for  an  answer.  The  truth,  however,  is,  that  I 
am  neither;  but  have  had  time  enough  to  have  scribbled  to  you, 
had  I  been  able  to  scribble  at  all.  To  explain  this  riddle  I  must 
give  you  a  short  account  of  my  proceedings. 

I  rise  at  six  every  morning,  and  fag  till  near  eleven,  when  I 
breakfast.  The  consequence  is,  that  I  am  so  exhausted  as  not  to  be 
able  to  write  when  the  opportunity  oifers.  You  will  say,  '  Break- 
fast before  you  work,  and  then  your  work  will  not  fatigue  you.'  I 
answer, '  Perhaps  I  might,  and  your  counsel  would  probably  prove 
beneficial ;  but  I  cannot  spare  a  moment  for  eating  in  the  early 
part  of  the  morning,  having  no  otlier  time  for  study.'  This  un- 
easiness, of  which  I  complain,  is  a  proof  that  I  am  somewhat 
stricken  in  years ;  and  there  is  no  other  cause  by  which  I  can  ac- 
count for  it,  since  I  go  early  to  bed,  always  'between  ten  and  eleven, 
and  seldom  fail  to  sleep  well.  Certain  it  is,  ten  years  since  I  could 
have  done  as  much,  and  sixteen  years  ago  did  actually  much  more, 
Avithout  suffering  fatigue  or  any  inconvenience  from  my  labours. 
How  insensibly  old  age  steals  on,  and  how  often  is  it  actually  ar- 
ri\'cd  before  we  suspect  it!  Accident  alone,  some  occurrence  that 
suggests  a  comparison  of  our  former  with  our  present  selves, 
affords  the  discovery.  Well,  it  is  alwaj's  good  to  be  undeceived, 
especially  on  an  article  of  such  importance. 

There  has  been  a  book  lately  published,  entitled,  Ma7i  as  he  i-r. 
I  have  heard  a  high  character  of  it,  as  admirably  written,  and 
am  informed  that,  for  that  reason,  and  because  it  inculcates  whig; 
princii)les,  it  is  by  many  imputed  to  you.  I  contradicted  this  re- 
port, assuring  my  informant  that  had  it  been  yours  I  must  have 
known  it,  for  that  you  have  bound  yourself  to  make  me  your  father- 
confessor  on  all  such  wicked  occasions,  and  not  to  conceal  from  me 
even  a  murder,  should  you  happen  to  commit  one. 

I  will  not  trouble  you  at  present  to  send  me  any  more  books  with 
a  view  to  my  notes  on  Homer.  I  am  not  without  hopes  that  Sir 
John  Throckmorton,  who  is  expected  here  from  Venice  in  a  short 
time,  may  bring  me  Villoison's  edition  of  the  Odyssey.  He  cer- 
tainly will,  if  he  found  it  published,  and  that  alone  will  be  instar 
emniutn. 

Adieu,  my  dearest  brother.     Give  my  love  to  Tom,  and  thanJc 


72  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

him  for  his  book,  of  which  I  believe  I  need  not  have  deprived  him, 
intending  that  my  readers  shall  detect  tlie  occult  instruction  con- 
tained in  Homer's  stories  for  themselves. 

w.  c. 


LETTER  LXX. 

To  Lady  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge.,  June  1,  1793. 
My  dearest  Coz. 

You  will  not,  you  say,  come  to  us  now ; 
and  you  tell  us  not  when  you  will.  These  assignations  sine  die  are 
such  shadowy  things,  that  I  can  neither  grasp  nor  get  any  comfort 
from  them.  Know  you  not  that  hope  is  the  next  best  thing  to  en- 
joyment ?  Give  us,  then,  a  hope,  and  a  determinate  time  for  that 
hope  to  fix  on,  and  we  will  endeavour  to  be  satisfied. 

Johnny  is  gone  to  Cambridge,  called  thither  to  take  his  degree, 
and  is  much  missed  by  me.  He  is  such  an  active  little  fellow  in 
my  service  that  he  cannot  be  otherwise.  In  three  weeks,  how- 
ever, I  shall  hope  to  have  him  again  for  a  fortnight.  I  have  had  a 
letter  from  him,  containing  an  incident  which  has  given  birth  to 
the  following. 

I'o  A  YOUNG    FRIEND, 

071  his  arrival  at  Cambridge  ivet,  when  no  rain  \\7idi fallen  there. 

If  Gideon's  fleece,  which  di'ench'd  with  dew  he  found, 
WTiile  moisture  none  refresh'd  the  herbs  around, 
Might  fitly  represent  the  church,  endow 'd 
Witli  heavenly  gifts,  to  heathens  not  allow'd ; 
In  pledge,  perhaps,  of  favours  from  on  high, 
Thy  locks  were  wet,  v\-hen  other  locks  were  dry. 
Heav'n  grant  us  half  the  omen !   may  we  see, 
Not  drought  on  others,  but  much  dew  on  thee  I 

These  are  spick  and  span.  Johnny  himself  has  not  yet  seen  them. 
By  the  way,  he  has  filled  your  book  completely;  and  I  will  give 
thee  a  guinea  if  thou  wilt  search  thy  old  book  for  a  couple  of  songs, 
and  two  or  three  other  pieces  of  which  I  know  thou  madest  copies 
at  the  Vickarage,  and  which  I  have  lost.  The  songs  I  know  are 
prettv  good,  and  I  would  fain  recover  them. 

W.  C. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  73 

LETTER  LXXL 

To  the  Reverend  Mr.  HURDIS. 

Weston,  June  6,  1T93, 
Mr  DEAR  Sir, 

I  seize  a  passing  moment  merely  to 
say,  that  I  feel  for  your  distresses  and  sincerely  pity  you,  and  I 
shall  he  happy  to  learn  from  your  next,  that  your  sister's  amend- 
ment has  superseded  the  necessity  you  feared,  of  a  journey  to 
London.  Your  candid  account  of  the  effect  that  your  afflictions 
have  both  on  your  spirits  and  temper,  I  can  perfectly  understand, 
havmg  laboured  much  in  that  fire  myself,  and  perhaps  more  than 
any  man.  It  is  in  such  a  school,  however,  that  we  must  learn,  if 
we  ever  truly  learn  it,  the  natural  depravity  of  the  human  heart, 
and  of  our  own  in  particular ;  together  with  the  consequence  that 
necessarily  follows  such  wretched  premises — our  indispensible  need 
of  the  atonement,  and  our  inexpressible  obligations  to  him  who 
made  it.  This  reflection  cannot  escape  a  thinking  mind,  looking 
back  on  those  ebullitions  of  fretfulness  and  impatience,  to  which  it 
has  yielded  in  a  season.of  great  affliction. 

Having  lately  had  company  who  left  us  only  on  the  fourth,  I 
have  done  nothing — nothing,  indeed,  since  my  return  from  Sussex, 
except  a  trifle  or  two  which  it  was  incumbent  upon  me  to  write. 
Milton  hangs  in  doubt;  neither  spirits  nor  opportunity  suffice  me 
for  that  labour.  I  regret  continually  that  I  ever  suffered  myself 
to  be  persuaded  to  undertake  it.  The  most  that  I  hope  to  effbct  is 
a  complete  revisal  of  my  own  Homer.  Johnson  told  my  friend, 
'vvho  has  just  left  me,  that  it  will  begin  to  be  reviewed  in  the  next 
Analytical,  and  that  he  /lo/ied  the  review  of  it  woidd  not  offend  me. 
By  this  I  understand  that  if  I  am  not  offended  it  will  be  owing  more 
to  my  own  equanimity  than  to  the  mildness  of  the  critic.  So  be  it! 
He  will  put  an  opportunit}'  of  victory  over  myself  into  my  hands, 
and  I  will  endeavour  not  to  lose  it.     Adieu. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  LXXIL 
To  WILLL\M  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

Weston,  June  20,  1793, 

Dear  architect  of  fine  chateaux  in  air, 
Worthier  to  stand  for  ever,  if  they  could, 
Than  any  built  of  stone,  or  yet  of  wood, 

For  back  of  royal  elephant  to  bear ! 

VOL.  II,  L 


74  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

Oh  for  permission  from  the  skies  to  share, 
Much  to  my  own,  though  little  to  thy  good, 
With  thee  (not  subject  to  the  jealous  mood) 

A  partnership  of  literary  ware ! 

But  I  am  bankrupt  now  ;  and  doom'd  henceforth 
To  dnidge  in  descant  dry,  on  others'  lays ; 

Bards,  I  acknowledg-e,  of  unequal  worth  l 
But  what  is  commentator's  happiest  praise? 

That  he  has  furnish'd  lights  for  other  eyes, 
Which  they  who  need  them  use,  and  then  despise. 

Wliat  remains  for  me  to  say  on  this  subject,  my  dear  brother 
bard,  I  will  say  in  prose.  There  are  other  impediments  which  I 
could  not  comprize  within  the  bounds  of  a  sonnet. 

My  poor  Mary's  infirm  condition  makes  it  impossible  for  me, 
at  present,  to  engage  in  a  work  such  as  you  propose.  My  thoughts 
are  not  sufficiently  free,  nor  have  I,  or  can  I,  by  any  means,  find 
opportunity:  added  to  which  comes  a  difficulty,  which,  though 
you  are  not  at  all  aware  of  it,  presents  itself  to  me  under  a  most 
forbidding  appearance:  can  you  guess  it?  No,  not  you:  neither, 
perhaps,  will  you  be  able  to  imagine  that  such  a  difficulty  can  pos- 
sil)ly  subsist.  If  your  hair  begins  to  bristle,  stroak  it  down  again, 
for  there  is  no  need  why  it  should  erect  itself.  It  concerns  me, 
not  )'ou.  I  know  myself  too  well  not  to  know  that  I  am  nobody  in 
verse,  unless  in  a  corner,  and  alone,  and  unconnected  in  my  ope- 
rations. This  is  not  o^ying  to  want  of  love  for  you,  my  brother, 
or  the  most  consummate  confidence  in  you ;  for  I  have  both  in  a 
degree  that  has  not  been  exceeded  m  the  experience  of  any  friend 
you  have,  or  ever  had.  But  I  am  so  made  up ;  I  will  not  enter  into 
a  metaphysical  analysis  of  my  strange  composition  in  order  ta 
detect  the  true  cause  of  this  evil ;  but,  oh  a  general  view  of  the 
matter,  I  suspect  that  it  proceeds  from  that  shyness,  which  has 
been  ni)-  effectual  and  almost  fatal  hinderance  on  many  other  im- 
portant occasions ;  and  wliich  I  should  feel,  I  well  know,   on  this, 

to  a  degree    that  would  perfectly  cripple    me. -No!    I  shall 

neither  do,  nor  attempt  any  thing  of  consequence  more,  unless  my 
poor  Marj"  get  better — nor  even  then,  unless  it  should  please  God 
to  give  me  another  nature — in  concert  with  any  man ;  I  could  not, 
even  with  my  own  father  or  brother,  were  they  now  alive.  Small 
game  must  serve  me  at  present,  and  till  I  have  done  with  Homer 
and  Milton,  a  sonnet,  or  some  such  matter  must  content  me.    The 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  75 

utmost  that  I  aspire  to,  (and  heaven  knows  with  how  feeble  a 
hope)  is  to  write,  at  some  better  opportuni  }-,  and  when  my 
hands  are  free.  The  four  jlge^^.  Thus  I  have  opened  my  heart 
unto  thee.  W.  C. 


LETTER  LXXIIL 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 
Mv  DEAREST  Brother,  Weston^  July  7,  1793. 

If  the  excessive  heat  of  this  day,  which 
forbids  me  to  do  any  thing  else,  will  permit  me  to  scribble  to  you, 
I  shall  rejoice.  To  do  this  is  a  pleasure  to  me  at  all  times,  but 
to  do  it  now,  a  double  ore;  because  I  am  in  haste  to  tell  you  how 
much  I  am  delighted  with  your  projected  quadruple  alliance,  and 
to  assure  you,  that  if  it  please  God  to  aflford  me  health,  spirits, 
ability,  and  leisure,  I  will  not  fail  to  devote  them  all  to  the  pro- 
duction of  my  quota.   The  four  ^ges. 

You  are  very  kind  to  humour  me  as  you  do,  and  had  need  be 
a  little  touched  yourself  with  all  my  oddities,  that  you  may  know 
liow  to  administer  to  mine.  All  whom  I  love  do  so,  and  I  believe 
it  to  be  impossiljle  to  love  heartily  those  who  do  not.  People  must 
not  do  me  good  in  their  way,  but  in  my  own,  and  then  they  do  me 
good  indeed.  My  pride,  my  ambition,  and  my  friendship  for  you, 
and  the  interest  I  take  in  my  own  dear  self,  will  all  be  consulted 
and  gratified  by  an  arm-in-arm  appearance  with  you  in  public; 
and  I  shall  work  with  more  zeal  and  assiduity  at  Homer;  and 
when  Homer  is  finished  at  Milton,  with  the  prospect  of  such  a 
coalition  before  me.  PiUt  what  shall  I  do  with  a  multitude  of  small 
pieces  from  which  I  intended  to  select  the  best,  and  adding  them 
to  The  four  Ages,  to  have  made  a  volume?  Will  there  be  room 
for  them  upon  your  plan?  I  have  re-touched  them,  and  will  re-. 
touch  them  again.  Some  of  them  will  suggest  pretty  devices  to  a 
designer,  and,  in  short,  I  have  a  desire  not  to  lose  them. 

I  am  at  this  moment,  with  all  the  impi-udence  natural  to  poets, 
expending  nobody  knows  what,  in  embellishing  my  premises,  or^ 
rather  the  premises  of  my  neighbour  Courteney,  Avhich  is  more 
poetical  still.  I  have  built  one  summer-house  already  with  the 
Iwards  of  my  old  study,  and  am  building  another,  s-pick  and  span 
as  they  say.  I  have  also  a  stone-cutter  now  at  work,  setting  a 
bust  of  my  dear  old  Grecian  on  a  pedestal;  and  beside  all  this,  I 
meditate  stiU  more,  that  is  to  be  dene  in  the  autumn.  Your  prcject, 
therefore,  is  most  opportune ;  as  any  project  must  needs  be  that 
has  so  distinct  a  tendency  to  put  money  into  the  pocket  of  one  so, 
likelv  to  want  it. 


f'*  .  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

Ah  brother  poet !  send  me  of  your  shade, 
And  bid  the  zephyrs  hasten  to  my  aid ; 
Or,  like  a  worm  unearth'd  at  noon,  I  go, 
Dispatch'd  by  sunshine,  to  the  shades  below. 

My  poor  Mary  is  as  well  as  the  heat  will  allow  her  to  be,  and 
whether  it  be  cold  or  sultry,  is  always  affectionately  mindful  of  you 
and  yours.    Adieu.  W.  C. 


LETTER  LXXIV. 
To  the  Reverend  Mr.  GREATHEED. 

July  23,  1793. 
I  was  not  without  some  expectation  of  a 
line  from  you,  my  dear  sir,  thougli  you  did  not  promise  me  one  at 
your  departure;  and  am  happy  not  to  have  been  disappointed: 
still  happier  to  learn  that  you  and  Mrs.  Greatheed  are  well,  and 
so  delightfully  situated.  Your  kind  offer  to  us  of  sharing  with  you 
the  house  which  you  at  present  inhabit,  added  to  the  short  but 
lively  description  of  the  scenery  that  surrounds  it,  want  nothing 
to  win  our  acceptance,  should  it  please  God  to  give  Mrs.  Unwin  a 
little  more  strength,  and  should  I  be  ever  master  of  my  time,  so  as 
to  be  able  to  gratif)'  myself  with  what  would  please  me  most.  But 
many  have  claims  upon  us,  and  some  who  cannot  absolutely  be 
said  to  ha^'e  any,  would  yet  complain  and  think  themselves  slight- 
ed, should  we  prefer  rocks  and  caves  to  them.  In  short,  we  are 
called  so  many  ways,  that  these  numerous  demands  are  likely  to 
operate  as  a  remora,  and  to  keep  us  fixt  at  home.  Here  we  can 
occasionally  have  the  pleasure  of  yours  and  Mrs.  Greatheed's 
copipany,  and  to  have  it  here  must,  I  believe,  content  us.  Hayley, 
in  his  last  letter,  gives  me  reason  to  expect  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
him  and  his  dear  boy  Tom  in  the  autumn.  He  will  use  all  his 
eloquence  to  draw  us  to  Eartham  again.  My  cousin  Johnny  of 
Norfolk  holds  me  under  promise  to  make  my  first  trip  thither, 
and  the  very  same  promise  I  have  hastily  made  to  visit  Sir  John 
and  Lady  Throckmorton,  at  Bucklands.  How  to  reconcile  such 
clashing  promises,  and  give  satisfaction  to  all,  would  puzzle  me, 
liad  I  nothing  else  to  do;  and  therefore,  as  I  say,  the  result  Avill 
probably  be,  tliat  wc  sliall  find  ourselves  obliged  to  go  no  where, 
since  we  cannot  every  where. 

Wishing  you  both  safe  at  home  again,  and  to  see  you  as  soon  as 
may  be  here,  I  remain  affectionately  jours, 

W.  C. 


LIFE  OF  COVVPER.  11 

LETTER  LXXV. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

JVestc?i,  July,  24,  ir93. 
I  have  been  vexed  with  myself,  my  dearest 
brother,  and  with  every  thing  about  me,  not  excepting  even  Ho- 
mer himself,  that  I  have  been  obliged  so  long  to  delay  an  answer  to 
your  last  kind  letter.  If  I  listen  any  longer  to  calls  another  way, 
I  shall  hardly  be  able  to  tell  you  how  happy  we  are  in  the  hope  of 
seeing  you  in  the  autumn,  before  the  autumn  will  have  arrived. 
Thi-ice  welcome  will  you  and  your  dear  boy  be  to  us,  and  the 
longer  you  will  afford  us  your  company,  the  more  welcome.  I 
have  set  up  the  head  of  Homer,  on  a  famous  fine  pedestal,  and  a 
very  majestic  appearance  he  makes.  I  am  now  puzzled  about  a 
motto,  and  wish  you  to  decide  for  me  between  two,  one  of  which 
J  have  composed  myself,  a  Greek  one,  as  follows ; 

Ei'/xivoe.  Ttj  TOivrriv  ;    x.\vtov  cc/too-^  «vo/i'  o\tt:\iv. 

The  other  is  my  own  translation  of  a  passage  in  the  Odyssey, 
*^^he  original  of  which  I  have  seen  used  as  a  motto  to  an  engraved 
Jiead  of  Homer  many  a  time. 

The  pi'esent  edition  of  the  lines  stands  thus : 

Him  partially  the  muse, 
And  dearly  lov'd,  yet  gave  him  good  and  ill : 
She  quench'd  his  sight,  but  gave  him  strains  divine. 

Tell  me,  by  the  way,  (if  you  ever  had  any  speculations  on  the  sub- 
ject) Avhat  is  it  you  suppose  Homer  to  have  meant  in  particular, 
v>'hen  he  ascribed  his  blindness  to  the  muse?  for  that  he  speaks  of 
himself,  under  tlie  name  of  Demodocus,  in  the  eighth  book,  I  be- 
lieve, is  l)y  all  admitted.  How  could  the  old  bard  study  himself 
blind,  when  books  were  either  few,  or  none  at  all  ?  And  did  he 
write  his  poems  ?  If  neither  were  the  cause,  as  seems  reasonable 
to  imagine,  how  could  he  incur  his  blindness  by  such  means  as 
could  lie  justly  imputalile  to  the  muse  ?  Would  mere  thinking  blind 
him  ?  I  want  to  know  : 

"  Call  up  some  spirit  from  the  vasty  deep  !" 

I  said  to  my  Sam* — "  Sam,  build  me  a  shed  in  the  garden,  wiik 

*  A  very  affectionate  worthy  domestic  who  attCTAled  his  mastsr  into  Sussex. 


rs  LIFE  OF  COWl^ER. 

any  thing  that  you  can  find,  and  make  it  rude  and  rough  like  ons 
of  those  at  Eartham."  "  Yes,  Sir,"  says  Sam,  and  straightway  lay- 
ing his  own  noddle  and  the  carpenter's  noddle  together,  has  built 
me  a  thing  fit  for  Stow  gardens.  Is  not  this  vexatious  ?  I  threaten, 
to  inscribe  it  tlius  : 

Beware  of  building!    I  intended 

Rough  logs  and  thatch,  and  thus  it  ended. 

But  my  Mary  says  I  shall  break  Sam's  heart,  and  the  cai-pen- 
fer's  too,  and  will  not  consent  to  it.  Poc-r  Mary  sleeps  but  ill. 
How  have  you  lived  who  cannot  bear  a  sun-beam  ? 

Adieu,  my  dearest  Hayley.  W.  C. 


LETTER  LXXVL 

To   Lady   HESKETH. 

1Fest07i,  ^iigicst  11,  1793. 
My  dearest  Coz. 

I  am  glad  that  my  poor  and  hasty  at- 
tempts to  express  some  little  ci^  ility  to  Miss  Fau'haw,  and  the 
amiable  Count,  have  your  and  her  approbation.  The  lines 
addressed  to  her  were  not  what  I  would  have  made  them,  hut  lack 
of  time,  a  lack  which  always  presses  me,  would  not  suffer  me  to 
improve  them.  Many  thanks  for  her  letter,  which,  were  my  me- 
rits less  the  subject  of  it,  I  should,  without  scrap  e,  say  is  an  excel- 
lent one.  She  writes  with  ihe  force  and  accuracy  of  a  person 
skilled  in  more  languages  than  are  spoken  in  the  present  day,  as  I 
doubt  not  that  she  is.  I  perfectly  approve  the  theme  she  recom- 
mends to  me,  but  am  at  present  so  totally  absv-rbed  in  Homer,  that 
all  I  do  beside  is  ill  done,  being  hurried  over ;  and  I  would  not  ex- 
ecute ill  a  subject  of  her  recommending. 

I  shall  watch  the  v/alnut- trees  with  more  attention  than  they  who 
eat  them,  which  I  do  in  some  hope,  though  yon  do  not  expressly 
say  so,  that  when  their  threshing-time  arrives  we  shall  see  you 
here.  I  am  now  going  to  paper  my  new  stud}-,  and  in  a  short 
time  it  will  be  fit  to  inhabit. 

Lady  Spencer  has  sent  me  a  present  from  Rome,  by  the  hands 
of  Sir  John  Throckmorton — engravings  of  Odyssey  subjects,  after 
figures  by  Flaxman,  a  statuary  at  present  resident  there,  of  high 
repute,  and  much  a  friend  of  Hayley 's. 

Thou  livest;  my  dear,  I  acknowledge,  in  a  very  fine  country, 
but  they  have  spoiled  it  by  building  London  in  it.     Adieu. 

W.  C. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  ?9 

EEl TER  LXXVII. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquiro. 

Weston,  August  15,  ir93. 

Instead  of  a  pound  or  two,  spending  a  mint 
Must  serve  me  at  least,  I  believe,  with  a  hint, 
That  building  and  building  a  man  may  be  driven 
At  last  out  of  doors,  and  have  no  house  to  live  in. 

Besides,  my  dearest  brother,  tliey  have  not  only  built  for  me 
»5vhat  I  did  not  want,  but  have  ruined  a  notable  tetrastic  by  doing 
so.  I  had  v/ritten  one  which  I  designed  for  a  hermitage,  and  it 
will  by  no  means  suit  the  fine  and  pompous  affair  which  they  have 
made  instead  of  one.  So  that,  as  a  poet,  I  am  every  way  afflicted ; 
made  poorer  than  I  need  have  been,  and  robbed  of  my  verses. 
What  case  can  be  more  deplorable  ? 

Y'ou  must  not  suppose  roe  ignor^mt  of  what  Flaxman  has  done,  oi* 
that  I  have  not  seen  it,  or  that  I  am  not  actually  hi  possession  of  it, 
at  least  of  the  engravings  which  you  mention.  In  fact,  I  have  had 
them  moi-e  than  a  fortnight.  Lady  Dowager  Spencer,  to  whom  I 
inscribed  my  Odyssey,  and  who  was  at  Rome  when  Sir  Joha 
Throckmorton  was  there,  charged  him  with  them  as  a  present  to 
me,  and  arriving  here  lately  he  executed  his  commission.  Romney, 
i  doubt  not,  is  right  in  his  judgment  of  them  :  he.  is  an  artist  him- 
self, and  cannot  easily  be  mistaken  ;  and  I  take  his  opinion  as  au 
oracle,  the  rather,  because  it  coincides  exactly  with  my  own.  The 
Jfigm-es  are  higliiy  classical,  antique,  and  elegant ;  especially  that 
of  Penelope,  who,  whether  she  wakes  or  sleeps,  must  necessarily 
charm  all  beholders. 

Your  scheme  of  embellishing  mj'  Odyssey  with  these  plates  is 
a  kind  one,  and  the  fruit  of ) our  benevolence  to  me ;  but  John- 
son, I  fear,  will  hardly  stake  so  much  money  as  the  cost  would 
amount  to,  on  a  work,  the  fate  of  which  is  at  present  uncertain. 
Kor  could  we  adorn  the  Odyssey  in  this  splendid  manner,  unless 
we  had  similar  ornaments  to  bestow  on  the  Iliad.  Such,  I  pre- 
sume, ai'c  not  ready,  ajid  much  time  must  elapse,  even  if  Flax- 
man  should  accede  to  the  plan,  beibre  he  could  possibly  prepare 
them.  Happy,  indeed,  should  I  be  to  see  a  work  of  mine  so  nobly 
accompanied,  but  should  that  good  fortune  ever  attend  me,  it  can- 
not take  place  till  the  third  or  fourth  edition  shall  afford  the  oc- 
casion. This  I  regix't,  and  I  regret  too,  that  you  Avill  have  seea 
iliem  before  I  can  have  aji  opportunity  to  show  tliem  to  yo\i.  Here 
is  six-pence  for  you  if  you  will  abstain  from  the  sight  of  them  wliilii 
you  arc  in  Lomlon. 


80  LIFE  OF  COV^TER. 

The  sculptor  ? — nameless,  though  once  dear  to  fame  ; 
But  this  man  bears  an  evei'lasting  name.* 

So  I  pui'pose  it  shall  stand ;  and  on  the  pedestal,  when  you  come, 
in  that  form  you  will  find  it.  The  added  line  from  the  Odyssey  is 
charming,  but  the  assumption  of  sonship  to  Homer  seems  too  dar- 
ing.    Suppose  it  stood  thus  ; — 

I  am  not  sure  that  this  would  be  clear  of  the  same  objection,  and 
it  departs  from  the  text  still  more. 

With  my  poor  Mary's  best  love,  and  our  united  wishes  to  see 
you  hei'e,  I  remain,  my  dearest  brother,  ever  yours, 

W.  C. 


LETTER  LXXVIII. 

To  Mrs.  COURTENEY. 

Weston,  August  20,  1793. 
My  dearest  Catharina  is  too  reasonable, 
I  knov\f,  to  expect  news  from  me,  who  live  on  the  outside  of  the 
world,  and  know  nothing  that  passes  within  it.  The  best  news 
is,  that  though  you  are  gone,  you  are  not  gone  for  ever,  as  once  I 
supposed  you  were,  and  said  that  Ave  should  probably  meet  no 
more.  Some  news,  however,  we  have ;  but  then  I  conclude  that  you 
have  already  received  it  from  the  Doctor,  and  that  thought  almost 
deprives  me  of  all  courage  to  relate  it.  On  the  evening  of  the 
feast,  Bob  Archer's  house  affording,  I  suppose,  the  best  room  for 
the  purpose,  all  the  lads  and  lasses  who  felt  themselves  disposed 
to  dance,  assembled  there.  Long  time  they  danced,  at  least  long 
time  they  did  something  a  little  like  it,  when  at  last  the  company 
having  retired,  the  fiddler  asked  Bob  for  a  lodging.  Bob  replied 
that  his  beds  were  all  full  of  his  own  family,  but  if  he  chose  it 
he  would  show  him  a  hay-cock,  where  he  might  sleep  as  sound  as  in 
any  bed  whatever.  So  forth  they  went  together,  and  Avhen  they 
reached  the  place,  the  fiddler  knocked  down  Bob  and  demanded 
his  money.  But  happily  for  Bob,  tliough  he  might  be  knocked 
down,  and  actually  was  so,  yet  he  could  not  possibly  be  robbed, 
having  nothing.  The  fiddler,  therefore,  having  amused  himself 
with  kicking  and  beating  him  as  he  lay,  as  long  as  he  saw  good, 
left  him,  and  has  never  been  heard  of  since,  nor  inquired  after 
indeed,  being  no  doubt  tlie  last  man  in  the  world  whom  Bob  wishes 
to  see  again., 

*  A  uanslaiion  of  Cowper's  Greek  verses  on  liis  bust  of  Homer. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  81 

By  a  letter  from  Hayley  to-day,  I  learn  that  Flaxman,  to 
whom  we  are  indebted  for  those  Odyssey  figures  which  Lady  Frog 
brought  over,  has  almost  finished  a  set  for  the  Iliad  also.  I  should 
be  glad  to  embellish  my  Homer  with  them,  but  neither  my  book-, 
seller  nor  I  shall  probably  choose  to  risque  so  expensive  an  orna- 
ment on  a  work,  whose  reception  with  the  public  is  at  present 
doubtful. 

Adieu,  my  dearest  Catharina.  Give  my  best  love  to  your  hus- 
band. Come  home  as  soon  as  you  can,  and  accept  our  united  very 
best  wishes.  W.  C. 


LETTER  LXXIX. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

The  LodgCy  August  22,  1793. 
My  dear  Friend, 

I  rejoice  that  you  have  had  so  pleasant 
an  excursion,  and  have  beheld  so  many  beautiful  scenes.  Except 
the  delightful  upway,  I  have  seen  them  all.  I  have  lived  much  at 
Southampton,  have  slept  and  caught  a  sore-throat  at  Lyndhurst, 
and  have  swam  in  the  bay  of  Weymouth.  It  will  give  us  great 
pleasure  to  see  you  here,  should  your  business  give  you  an  oppor- 
tunity to  finish  your  excursions  of  this  season  with  one  to  Weston. 
As  for  my  going  on,  it  is  much  as  usual.  I  rise  at  six;  an  in- 
dustrious and  wholesome  practice  from  which  I  have  never 
swerved  since  March.  I  breakfast  generally  about  eleven — have 
given  all  the  intermediate  time  to  my  old  delightful  bard.  Vil- 
loisson  no  longer  keeps  me  company.  I  therefore  now  jog  along 
with  Clarke  and  Barnes  at  my  elljow,  and  from  the  excellent  an- 
notations of  the  former  select  such  as  I  think  likely  to  be  useful,  or 
that  recommend  themselves  by  the  amusement  they  may  afford ;  of 
which  sorts  there  are  not  a  few.  Barnes  also  affords  me  some  of 
both  kinds,  but  not  so  many,  his  notes  being  chiefly  paraphrastical 
or  grammatical.  My  only  fear  is  lest,  between  them  both,  I  should 
make  m\"  work  too  voluminous.  W.  C» 


LETTER  LXXX. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

Weston,  August  27,  1793, 
I  thank  you,  my  dear  brother,  for  con- 
sulting the  (iibbonian  oracle  on  the  question  concernin'g  Homer's 
muse,  and  his  blindness.     I  proposed  it  likewise  to  my  little  neigh- 
bour Buchanan,  who  gave  me  precisely  the  same  answert     I  felt 

VOL.  II.  M 


82  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

an  insatiable  thirst  to  learn  something  new  concerning  him,  ami, 
despairing  of  information  from  others,  Avas  willing  to  hope  that  I 
had  stnmbled  on  matter  unnoticed  by  the  commentators,  and  might, 
perhaps,  acquire  a  little  intelligence  from  himself.  But  the  great 
and  the  little  oracle  together  have  extinguished  that  hope,  and  I 
despair  now  of  making  any  curious  discoveries  about  him. 

Since  Flaxman  (wliich  I  did  not  know  till  your  letter  told  me 
so)  has  been  at  work  for  the  Iliad,  as  well  as  the  Odyssey,  it 
seems  a  great  pity  that  the  engravings  should  not  be  bound  up 
with  some  Homer  or  other ;  and,  as  I  said  before,  I  should  have 
been  too  proud  to  have  bound  them  up  in  mine.  But  there  is  an 
objection,  at  least  such  it  seems  to  me,  that  threatens  to  disqualify 
them  for  such  a  use;  namely,  the  shape  and  size  of  them,  which 
are  such  that  no  Ijook  of  the  usual  form  could  possibly  receive 
them,  save  in  a  folded  state,  which,  I  apprehend,  would  be  to 
murder  them. 

•  The  monument  of  Lord  ivlansfield,  for  which  you  say  he  is  en- 
gaged, will,  I  dare  say,  prove  a  noble  effort  of  genius.  Statuaries, 
as  I  have  heard  an  eminent  one  say,  do  not  much  trouble  them- 
selves about  a  likeness :  else  I  would  give  much  to  be  able  to  com- 
municate to  Flaxman  the  perfect  idea  that  I  have  of  the  subject, 
such  as  he  Avas  forty  years  ago.  He  was  at  that  time  wonderfully 
handsome,  and  would  expound  the  most  mysterious  intricacies  of 
the  law,  or  recapitulate  both  matter  and  evidence  of  a  cause,  as 
long  as  from  hence  to  Earthani,  with  an  intelligent  smile  on  his 
features,  that  bespoke  plainly  the  perfect  ease  Avith  which  he  did 
it.  The  most  abstruse  studies,  I  believe,  never  cost  him  any  la- 
bour. 

You  say  nothing  lately  of  your  intended  journey  our  way :  yet 
the  year  is  Avaning,  and  the  shorter  days  give  you  a  hint  to  lose  no 
time  unnecessarily. — Lately  Ave  had  the  Avhole  family  at  the  Hall, 
and  noAv  Ave  have  nobody.  The  Thi'cckmortons  are  gone  into 
Berkshire,  and  the  Courteneys  into  Yorkshire.  They  are  so  plea- 
sant a  famii)',  that  I  heartily  Avish  you  to  see  them ;  and  at  the 
same  time  Avish  to  see  you  before  they  return,  Avhich  Avill  not  be 
sooner  than  October.  How  shall  I  reconcile  these  Avishes,  seem- 
ingly opposite?  Why,  by  wishing  that  you  may  come  soon  and  stay 
long.     I  know  no  other  way  of  doing  it. 

My  poor  Mary  is  much  as  usual. — I  have  set  up  Homer's  head, 
and  inscribed  the  pedestal ;  my  OAvn  Greek  at  the  top,  Avith  your 
translation  under  it,  and 

It  makes  altogether  a  very  smart  and  learned  appearance. 

W.  C. 


LIFE  OF  COWTER.  S3 

LETTER  LXXXI. 

To  Lady  HESKETH. 

August  59,  1T93. 
Your  question,  at  what  time  your  coming 
to  us  v/ill  be  most  agreeable,  is  a  knotty  one,  and  such  as,  had  I 
the  wisdom  of  Solomon,  I  should  be  puzzled  to  answer.  I  will, 
therefore,  leave  it  still  a  question,  and  refer  the  time  of  your  jour- 
ney Weston-ward  entirely  to  your  own  election  ;  adding  this  oue 
limitation,  however,  that  I  do  not  wish  to  see  you  exactly  at  pre- 
sent, on  account  of  the  unfinished  state  of  my  study,  the  wainscot 
■of  which  still  smells  of  paint,  and  which  is  not  yet  papered.  But 
to  return  :  as  I  have  insinuated,  thy  pleasant  company  is  the  thing 
which  I  always  wish,  and  as  much  at  one  time  as  at  another.  I 
believe,  if  I  examine  myself  minutely,  since  I  despair  of  ever  hav- 
ing it  in  the  height  of  summer,  which,  for  your  sake,  I  should  desire 
most,  the  depth  of  the  winter  is  the  season  which  would  be  most 
eligible  to  me.  For  then  it  is  that,  in  general,  I  have  most  need  of 
a  cordial,  and  particularly  in  the  month  of  January.  I  am  soriy, 
however,  tiiat  I  ha\'e  departed  so  far  from  my  first  piu'pose,  and 
am  answering  a  question  which  I  declared  myself  unaljle  to  an- 
swer. Choase  thy  own  time,  secure  of  this,  that  whatever  time 
that  be,  it  will  always  to  us  he  a  welcome  one. 
I  thank  jou  for  your  pleasant  extract  of  Miss  Fanshaw's  letter. 

Her  pen  drops  eloquence  as  sweet 
As  any  muse's  tongue  can  speak ; 
Nor  need  a  scribe,  like  her,  regret 
Her  want  of  Latin  orof  Greek. 

And  now,  my  dear,  adieu !  I  have  done  more  than  I  expected, 
and  begin  to  feel  myself  exhausted  with  so  much  scribbling  at  the 
fihd  of  four  hours  close  application  to  study. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  LXXXIL 
•      To  the  Reverend  Mr.  JOHNSOX. 

Weston,  Scjit.  6,  1793. 
My  dearest  Johxny, 

To  do  a  kind  thing,  and  in  a  kind  man- 
ner, is  a  doul)le  kindness,  and  no  man  is  more  addicted  to  both 
than  you,  or  more  skilful  in  contriving  them.  Your  plan  to  smv 
piil^ie  nie  agreea!)ly  succeeded  to  admirati(in.     It  was  only  tlic  day 


84t  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

before  jesterday  that,  while  we  walked  after  dinner  in  the  orch- 
ard, Mrs.  Unwin  !)etween  Sam  and  me,  hearing  the  Hall-clock,  I 
observed  a  great  difference  between  that  and  ours,  and  began  im- 
mediately to  lament,  as  I  had  often  done,  that  there  was  not  a  sun- 
dial in  all  Weston  to  ascertain  tlie  true  time  for  us.  My  complaint 
was  long,  and  lasted  till,  havmg  turned  into  the  grass  walk,  we 
reached  the  new  building  at  the  end  of  it,  where  we  sat  awhile 
and  reposed  ourselves.  In  a  few  minutes  we  returned  by  the  v/ay 
we  came,  when  what  think  you  was  my  astonishment  to  see  what 
I  had  not  seen  before,  though  I  had  passed  close  by  it,  a  smart 
gun-dial  mounted  on  a  smart  stone  pedestal !  I  assure  you  it  seemed 
the  effect  of  conjuration.  I  stopped  short,  and  exclaimed,  "  Why, 
here  i^  a  sun-dial,  and  upon  our  own  ground!  How  is  this?  Tell 
me,  Sam,  how  came  it  here?  Do  you  know  any  thing  about  it ? " 
At  first  I  reaily  th;  ught  (that  is  to  say,  as  soon  as  I  could  think  at 
all)  that  this  fac-totum  of  mine,  Sam  Roberts,  having  often  heard 
me  deplcre  the  want  of  one,  had  given  orders  for  the  supply  of  that 
want  himself,  witliout  mj"  knowledge,  and  was  half  pleased  and 
half  offended.  But  he  soon  exculpated  himself  by  imputing  the 
fact  to  3'^ou.  It  was  brought  up  to  Weston,  it  seems,  a'.out  noon : 
but  Andrews  stopped  the  cart  at  the  blacksmith's,  whence  he  sent 
to  inqinre  if  I  was  gone  to  my  walk.  As  it  happened,  I  walked 
not  till  tVi?o  o'clock.  So  there  it  stood  waiting  tih  I  should  go  forth, 
and  was  introduced  before  my  return.  Fortunately,  too,  I  went  out 
at  the  church  end  of  the  village,  and  consequently  saw  nothing  of 
it.  How  I  could  possibljr  pass  it  without  seeing  it,  when  it  stood  in 
the  walk,  I  know  not ;  but  it  is  certain  that  I  did :  and  where  I 
shall  fix  it  now  I  know  as  little.  It  cannot  stand  between  the  two 
gates,  the  place  nf  your  choice,  as  I  understand  from  Samuel,  be- 
cause the  hay-cart  must  pass  that  way  in  the  season.  But  we  are 
now  bus}  in  winding  the  walk  all  round  the  orchard,  and  in  so  doing 
sh?;ll  doubtless  stumble  at  last  upon  some  open  spot  that  will  suit  it. 

There  it  shall  stand  while  I  live,  a  constant  monument  of  your 
kindness. 

I  have  this  moment  finished  the  twelfth  book  of  the  Odyssey, 
and  I  read  the  Iliad  to  Mrs,  Unwin  every  evening. 

The  effect  of  this  reading  is,  that  I  still  spy  blemishses,  some- 
thing, at  least,  that  I  can  mend;  so  that,  after  all,  the  transcript 
of  alterations  whicli  you  and  George  have  made  will  not  be  a  per- 
fect one.  It  would  be  foolish  to  forego  an  opportunity  of  improve- 
ment for  such  a  reason;  neither  will  I.  It  is  ten  o'clock,  and  I 
must  breakfast.  Adieu,  therefore,  my  dear  Johnny !  Rensembcp 
your  appointment  to  yce  us  in  October.     Ever  vours, 

V,".  C\ 


LIFE  OF  COV.TER.  «f 

LETTER  LXXXIII.       - 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

ScJU.  8,  1793. 
JSfon  sum  quod  shnulo^  my  dearest  brother  i 
I  seem  cheerful  upon  paper  sometimes,  when  I  am  absolutely 
the  most  dejected  of  all  creatures.  Desii-ous,  howexer,  to  gain 
something  myself  by  my  own  letters,  unprofitable  as  they  may  and 
must  be  to  my  friends,  I  keep  melancholy  out  of  them  as  much  as 
I  can,  tliat  I  may,  if  possible,  by  assuming  a  less  gloomy  air, 
deceive  myself,  and  by  feigning  with  a  continuance,  improve  the 
fiction  into  I'ealit)'. 

So  you  have  seen  Flaxman's  figm-es,  which  I  intended  you  should 
not  have  seen  till  I  had  spread  them  befoi-e  you  I  How  did  you 
dare  to  look  at  them  ?  You  should  ha\'e  covered  your  eyes  with 
both  hands.  I  am  charmed  with  Flaxman's  Penelope,  and  though 
you  don't  deserve  that  I  should,  will  send  you  a  few  lines,  such  as 
they  arc,  with  which  she  inspired  me  the  other  day  while  I  was 
taking  my  noon-day  walk. 

The  suitors  sinn'd,  but  with  a  fair  excuse, 
VMiom  all  this  elegance  might  weD  seduce ; 
Nor  can  our  censure  on  tlie  husband  fall. 
Who,  for  a  wife  so  lovely,  slew  them  all. 

I  know  not  that  you  will  meet  any  body  here  when  we  see 
you  in  October,  unless,  perhaps,  my  Johnny  should  happen  to  be 
■with  us.  If  Tom  is  charmed  with  the  thoughts  of  coming  to 
Weston,  we  are  equally  so  witli  the  tlioughts  of  seeing  him  here. 
At  his  years  I  should  hardly  hope  to  make  his  visit  agreeable  to 
him,  did  not  I  know  that  he  is  of  a  temper  and  disposition  that 
jmist  make  him  happy  every  where.  Give  (iur  love  to  him.  If 
Romncy  can  come  with  you,  we  have  both  room  to  recei\  e  him, 
and  hearts  to  make  him  most  welcome. 

\\\  C. 


LETTER   LXXXIV. 
To  Mrs.  COURTENEY. 

Sr/it.   \&,  1793. 

A  tliousand  lh;in]cs,   my  dearest  Catha- 

vina,  for  your  pleasant  letter;  one  of  the  ])'casantcst  that  I  have 

received  since  your  departure.    You  arc  very  good  to  apologize  foi* 

your  delay,  but  I  jiad  not  flattered  invicJf  with  the  hopes  of  a 


fiS  LIFE  OF  COWFER. 

speedier  answer.  Knowing  full  well  your  talents  for  entertaining 
your  friends  who  are  present,  I  was  sure  you  would  with  difficulty 
find  half  an  hour  that  you  eould  devote  to  an  absent  One. 

I  am  glad  that  you  think  of  your  return.  Poor  Weston  is  a  de- 
solation without  you.  In  the  mean  time  I  amuse  myself  as  well 
as  I  can,  thi'umming  old  Homer's  lyre,  and  turning  the  premises 
upside  down.  Upside  down  indeed,  for  so  it  is  literally  that  I  have 
been  dealing  with  the  orchard  almost  ever  since  you  went,  dig- 
ging and  delving  it  around  to  make  a  new  walk,  which  now  begins 
to  assume  the  shape  of  one,  and  to  look  as  if,  some  time  or  other, 
it  may  serve  in  that  capacity.  Taking  my  usual  exercise  there 
the  other  day  with  Mrs.  Unwin,  a  wide  disagreement  between 
your  clock  and  ours  occasioned  me  to  complain  much,  as  I  have 
often  done,  of  the  want  of  a  dial.  Guess  my  surprise  when,  at 
the  close  of  mv  complaint,  I  saw  one ;  saw  one  close  at  my  side, 
a  smart  one,  glittering  in  the  sun,  and  mounted  on  a  pedestal  of 
stone.  I  was  astonished.  "  This,"  I  exclaimed,  "  is  absolute  con- 
juration."— It  was  a  most  mysterious  affair,  but  the  mystery  wa^ 
at  last  explained. 

TJiis  scribble,  I  presume,  will  find  you  just  arrived  atBucklands. 
I  would  with  all  my  heirt,  that,  since  dials  can  be  thus  suddenly 
conjured  from  one  place  to  another,  I  could  be  so  toQ,  and  could 
start  up  before  your  eyes  in  the  middle  of  some  walk  or  lawn, 
where  you  and  Lady  Frog  are  wandering. 

Vvliile  Pitcairne  whistles  for  his  family-estate  in  Fifcshire,  he 
will  do  well  if  he  will  sound  a  few  notes  for  me.  I  am  originally 
of  the  same  shire,  and  a  family  of  my  name  is  still  there,  to  whom, 
perhaps,  he  may  whistle  on  my  behalf,  not  altogether  in  vain.  So 
shall  his  fife  excel  all  my  poetical  eflforts,  which  have  not  yet, 
and  I  dare  say  never  will,  effectually  charm  one  acre  of  ground 
into  my  possession. 

Remember  me  to  Sir  John,  Lady  Frog,  and  your  husband ;  tell 
therp  I  love  them  all.  She  told  me  once  she  was  jealous ;  now,  in- 
deed, she  seems  to  have  some  reason,  since  to  her  I  ha\e  not  Avrit^ 
ten,  and  have  written  twice  to  you.  But  bid  her  be  of  good  cou- 
rage ;  in  due  time  I  will  give  her  proof  of  my  constancy. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  LXXXV. 

To  the  Reverend  Mr.  JOHNSON. 

My  dearest  Johnny,  Sejit.  29,  1793, 

You  have  done  v/ell  to  leave  off  visiting 

«.nd  being  visited.     Visits  are  insatiable  devourers  of  time,  and 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  87 

fit  onlv  for  those  who,  if  they  did  not  that,  wruld  do  notliing.  The 
■worst  consequence  of  such  departures  from  ccmmon  practice  is 
to  be  termed  a  singular  sort  of  a  fellow,  or  an  odd-fish;  a  sort  of 
reproach  that  a  man  might  be  wise  enough  to  contemn,  who  had 
not  half  your  understanding. 

I  look  forward  with  pleasure  to  October  the  eleventh,  the  day 
Avhich  I  expect  will  be  albo  notandus  lajiillo.,  on  account  of  your 
arrival  here. 

Here  you  will  meet  Mr.  Rose,  who  comes  on  the  eighth,  and 
brings  with  him  Mr.  Lawrence  the  painter — you  may  guess  for 
what  purpose.  Lawrence  returns  when  he  has  made  his  copy  of 
me,  but  Mr.  Rose  will  remain  perhaps  as  long  as  you  will.  Hayley, 
on  the  contrary,  will  come,  I  suppose,  just  in  time  not  to  see  you. 
Him  we  expect  on  the  twentieth.  I  trust  however  that  thou  wilt 
so  order  thy  pastoral  matters,  as  to  make  thy  stay  here  as  long 
as  possible. 

Lady  Hesketh,  in  her  last  letter,  inquires  very  kindly  after 
you ;  asked  me  for  your  address,  and  purposes  soon  to  write  to  you. 
W'e  hope  to  see  her  in  November  :  so  that  after  a  summer  without 
company,  we  are  likely  to  have  an  autumn  and  winter  sociable 
enough. 

LETTER  LXXXVL 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

October  5,  1793, 
My  good  intentions  towards  you,  my 
dearest  brother,  arc  continually  frustrated;  and,  which  is  most  pro- 
voking, not  by  such  engagements  and  avocations  as  have  a  right 
to  my  attention,  such  as  those  to  my  Mary,  and  to  the  old  bard 
of  Greece,  but  mere  impertinences,  such  as  calls  of  civility  from 
persons  not  very  interesting  to  me,  and  letters  from  a  distance 
still  less  interesting,  because  the  writers  of  them  are  strangers. 
A  man  sent  me  a  long  copy  of  verses,  which  I  could  do  no  less 
than  acknowledge.  They  were  silly  enough,  and  cost  rac  eighteen- 
pence,  which  was  seventeen  pence  halfpenny  farthing  more  than 
they  were  worth.  Another  sent  me,  at  the  same  time,  a  plan,  re- 
questing my  opinion  of  it,  and  that  I  would  lend  him  my  name  as 
editor ;  a  request  with  which  I  shall  not  comply  ;  but  I  am  obliged 
to  tell  him  so,  and  one  letter  is  all  that  I  have  time  to  dispatch  in  a 
day,  sometimes  half  a  one,  and  sometimes  I  am  not  able  to  write 
at  all.  Thus  it  is  that  my  time  perishes,  and  I  can  neither  give 
sn  much  of  it  as  I  would  to  you,  nor  to  any  other  valuable  purpose. 
On  Tuesday  we  expect  company — Mr,  Rose  and  Lawrence  the 


88  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

painter.  Yet  once  more  is  my  patience  to  be  exercised,  and  once 
more  I  am  made  to  wish  that  my  face  had  been  moveable,  to  put 
on  and  take  off  at  pleasure,  so  as  to  be  portable  in  a  band-box,  and 
sent  to  the  artist.  These,  however,  will  be  gone,  as  I  believe  I 
told  you,  before  you  arrive,  at  which  time  I  know  not  that  any 
body  will  be  here,  except  my  Johnny,  whose  presence  will  not  at 
ail  interfere  with  our  readings.  You  will  not,  I  believe,  find  me  a 
very  slashing  critic.  I  hardly,  indeed,  expect  to  find  any  thing  in, 
your  life  of  Miltcn  that  I  shall  sentence  to  amputation.  How 
should  it  be  too  long?  A  well  written  work,  sensible  and  spirited, 
such  as  yours  was  when  I  saw  it,  is  never  so.  But,  however,  we 
shall  see.  I  promise  to  spare  nothing  that  I  thiiik  may  be  lopped^ 
off  with  advantage. 

I  began  this  letter  yesterday,  but  could  not  finish  it  till  now.  I 
have  risen  this  morning  like  an  infernal  frog  out  of  Acheron,  co- 
vered with  the  ouze  and  mud  of  melancholy.  For  this  reason  I 
am  not  sorry  to  find  myself  at  the  bottom  of  my  paper,  for  had  I 
more  room,  perhaps  I  might  fill  it  all  with  croaking,  and  make  a 
heart-ache  at  Eartham,  which  I  wish  to  be  always  cheerful. 
Adieu.  My  poor  sympathising  Mary  is  of  course  sad,  but  alwaya 
mindful  of  you. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  LXXXVIL 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

Oct.  13,  1793. 
My  DEAREST  Brother, 

I  have  not,  at  present,  much  that  is  neces- 
sary to  say  here,  because  I  shall  have  the  happiness  of  seeing  you 
so  soon :  my  time,  according  to  custom,  is  a  mere  scrap ;  for  which 
reason  such  must  be  my  letter  also. 

You  will  find  here  more  than  I  have  hitherto  given  you  reason  to 
expect,  but  none  who  will  not  be  happy  to  see  you.  These,  how- 
ever, stay  with  us  but  a  short  time,  and  will  leave  us  in  full  posses- 
sivon  of  Weston  on  Wednesday  next, 

I  loolc  forward  with  joy  to  your  coming,  heartily  wishing  you  a, 
pleasant  journey,  in  which  my  poor  Mary  joins  me.  Give  our 
best  love  to  Tom  ;  without  whom,  after  having  been  taught  to  look 
for  him,  we  should  feel  our  pleasure  in  the  interview  much  dimi- 
nished. 

Ljcti  expectamus  et  puerumque  tuum. 

W.  C, 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  £9 

My  second  visit  to  Weston  (a  scene  that  I  cannot  mention 
without  feeling  it  endeared  to  me  by  the  pleasures  and  by  the 
pains  of  joyous  and  of  mournful  remembrance)  took  place  very 
soon  after  the  date  of  the  last  letter.  I  found  Cowper  apparently 
well,  and  enlivened  by  the  society  of  his  young  kinsman  from 
Norfolk,  and  another  of  his  favourite  friends,  Mr.  Rose.  The 
latter  came  recently  from  the  seat  of  Lord  Spencer,  in  Northamp- 
tonshire, and  commissioned  by  that  accomplished  nobleman  to 
invite  Cowper  and  his  guests  to  Althot-pe,  where  my  friend  Gibbon 
was  to  make  a  visit  of  considerable  continuance. 

All  the  guests  of  Cowper  now  recommended  it  to  him,  very 
strongly,  to  venture  on  this  little  excursion  to  a  house  whose  mas- 
ter he  most  cordially  respected,  and  whose  library  alone  might  be 
I'egarded  as  a  magnet  of  very  powerful  attraction  to  every  elegant 
scholar. 

I  wished  to  see  Cowper  and  Gibbon  personally  acquainted,  be- 
cause I  perfectly  knew  the  real  benevolence  of  both ;  for  widely  as 
they  might  differ  on  one  impoi'tant  article,  they  were  both  able 
and  vv^orthy  to  appreciate  and  enjoy  the  extraordinary  mental 
powers,  and  the  rare  colloquial  excellence  of  each  other.  But  the 
constitutional  shpiess  of  the  poet  conspired  with  the  present  in- 
firm state  of  Mrs.  Unwinto  prevent  their  meeting.  He  sent  Mr. 
Rose  and  me  to  make  his  apology  for  declining  so  honourable  an 
invitation.  After  a  visit  to  Althorpe,  where  we  had  nothing  to  re- 
gret but  the  absence  of  Cowper,  I  returned  to  devote  myself  to 
him,  when  his  younger  guests  were  departed.  Our  social  employ- 
ment, at  tliis  season,  he  has  very  cheerfully  described  in  the  follow- 
ing letter  to  Mrs.  Courteney. 


LETTER  LXXXVIIT. 
To  lAIrs.  COURTENEY. 

Wcstoii,  jYuv.  4,  1793. 
I  seldom  rejoice  in  a  day  of  soaking 
rain  like  this  ;  but  in  this,  my  dearest  Catharina,  I  do  rejoice  sin- 
cei-ely,  because  it  aft()rds  me  an  opportunity  of  writing  to  you, 
which,  if  fair  weather  had  invited  us  into  the  orchard-walk  at  the 
usual  hour,  I  should  not  have  easily  found.  I  am  a  most  busy  man, 
busy  to  a  degree  that  sometimes  half  distracts  me ;  but  if  com- 
plete distraction  be  occasioned  by  having  the  thoughts  too  much 
and  too  long  attached  to  a  single  point,  I  am  in  no  danger  of  it, 
^\ilh  such  a  perpetual  whirl  arc  mine  whisked  about  from  one  sub- 
ject to  another.  When  two  poets  meet  there  are  fine  doings,  I  can 
assure  )ou.  My  Homer  finds  work  for  Hayley,  and  his  Liie  of 
vol..  II.  N 


so  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

Milton  work  for  me,  so  that  we  are  neither  of  us  one  moment  idle. 
Poor  Mrs.  Unwin,  in  the  mean  time,  sits  quiet  in  her  corner,  occa- 
sionally laughing  at  us  both,  and  not  seldom  interrupting  us  with 
some  question  or  remark,  for  which  she  is  constantly  rewarded  by 

me,  with  a  "Hush — hold  your  peace." Bless  yourself,  my  dear 

Catharina,  that  you  are  not  connected  with  a  poet,  especially  that 
you  have  not  two  to  deal  with :  ladies  who  have  may  be  bidden, 
indeed,  to  hold  their  peace,  but  vei-y  little  peace  have  they.  How 
should  they,  in  fact,  have  any,  continually  enjoined  as  they  are  to 
be  silent  ? 


The  same  fcA'er  that  has  been  so  epidemic  there,  has  been  se- 
verely felt  here  likewise :  some  have  died,  and  a  multitude  have 
been  in  danger.  Two  under  our  own  roof  have  been  infected  witli 
it,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  I  have  perfectly  escaped  myself,  but  I 
am  now  well  again. 

I  have  persuaded  Hayley  to  stay  a  week  longer,  and  again  my 
hopes  revive  that  he  may  yet  have  an  opportunity  to  know  my 
friends  before  he  returns  into  Sussex. — I  write  amidst  a  chaos  of 
interruptions.  Hayley  on  one  hand  spouts  Greek,  and  on  the  other 
hand  Mrs.  Unwin  continues  talking,  sometimes  to  us,  and  some- 
times, because  we  are  both  too  busy  to  attend  to  her,  she  holds  a 
dialogue  with  herself.  Quere — Is  not  this  a  bull?  and  ought  I  not, 
instead  of  dialogue,  to  have  said  soliloquy  ? 

Adieu.  With  our  vmited  love  to  all  your  party,  and  with  ardent 
wishes  soon  to  see  you  all  at  Weston,  I  remain,  my  dearest  Catha- 
rina, ever  yours, 

W.  C. 


Cowper  entreated  me,  with  great  kindness,  to  remain  the  whole 
winter  at  Weston,  and  engage  with  him  in  a  regular  and  complete 
revisal  of  his  Homer.  I  wanted  not  inclination  for  an  office  so 
agreeable  ;  but  it  struck  me  that  I  might  render  much  more  essen- 
tial service  to  the  poet,  as  I  returned  through  London,  by  quicken- 
ing in  the  minds  of  his  more  powerful  friends  a  seasonable  atten- 
tion to  his  interest  and  welfare.  My  feai's  for  him,  in  every  point 
of  view,  were  alarmed  by  his  present  very  singular  condition.  He 
possessed  completely,  at  this  period,  all  the  admirable  faculties  of 
his  mind,  and  all  the  native  tenderness  of  his  heart ;  but  there  was 
something  indescribable  in  his  appearance,  which  led  me  to  appre- 
hend that  without  some  signal  event  in  his  favour  to  re-animate  his 
spirits,  they  would  gradually  sink  into  hopeless  dejection.    The 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  91 

ctate  of  his  aged,  infirm  companion  afforded  additional  ground  for 
increasing  solicitude.  Her  cheerful  and  beneficent  spirit  could 
liardly  resist  her  own  accumulated  maladies  so  far  as  to  preserve 
ability  suflficient  to  watch  over  the  tender  health  of  him  whom  she 
had  watched  and  guarded  so  long.  Imbecility  of  body  and  mind 
must  gradually  render  this  tender  ancl  heroic  woman  unfit  for  the 
charge  which  she  had  so  laudably  sustained.  The  signs  of  such 
imbecility  were  beginning  to  be  prinfully  visible :  nor  can  natui'e 
present  a  spectacle  more  tinly  pitia-ble  than  imbecility  in  such  a 
shape,  eagerly  grasping  for  dominion  which  it  knows  not  either 
how  to  retain  or  how  to  relinquish. 

I  left  Weston  in  November,  painfully  anxious  for  the  alarming 
state  of  my  two  friends,  and  I  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  add  to  their 
■complicated  troubles  some  degree  of  inquietude  for  my  health.  A 
slight  attack  of  an  epidemical  fever  had  rather  hastened  than  re- 
tarded my  departure;  but  my  indisposition  proved  more  serious 
than  I  had  supposed  it  to  be ;  and  instead  of  being  able  to  execute 
some  literary  commissions  forCov/per  in  London,  with  the  alacrity 
which  affection  sxiggests,  I  was  obliged  to  inform  him  that  I  was 
confined  by  illness.  He  wrote  to  me  immediately,  with  the  tender- 
ness peculiar  to  himself,  and  my  reviving  health  soon  enabled  mc 
to  enliven  his  apprehensive  mind,  not  only  with  an  account  of  my 
recovery,  but  with  intelligence  relating  to  his  own  literary  engage- 
ments that  had  a  tendency  to  relieve  his  spirits  from  a  considerabl<j 
part  of  their  present  embarrassment  and  dejection.  His  next  letter 
to  one  of  his  confidential  friends  contains  a  very  cheerful  and  just 
<lescription  of  his  favourite  residence. 


LETTER  LXXXIX. 
To  JOSEPH  HILL,    Esquire. 

My  dear  Friend, 

In  a  letter  from  Lady  Hesketh,  whicli  I 
received  not  long  since,  she  informed  me  how  veiy  pleasantly  she 
had  spent  some  time  at  Wargrove.  We  now  begin  to  expect  her 
here,  where  our  charms  of  situation  are,  perhaps,  not  equal  to 
yours,  yet  by  no  means  contemptible.  She  told  me  she  had  spoken 
to  you  in  very  handsome  terms  of  the  country  round  about  us,  but 
not  so  of  our  house,  and  the  view  before  it.  The  house  itself, 
however,  is  not  unworthy  some  commendation ;  small  as  it  is,  it 
is  neat,  and  neater  than  she  is  aware  of;  for  my  study  and  the 
?-oom  over  it  have  been  repaired  and  beautified  this  summer,  and 
iittlc  more  was  wanting  to  make  it  an  abode  sufficiently  comrac- 


92  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

dioiis  for  a  man  of  my  moderate  desires.  As  to  the  prospect  from 
it,  that  she  misrepresented  strangely,  as  I  hope  soon  to  have  an 
opportunity  to  convince  her  by  ocular  demonstration.  She  told 
j^ou,  I  know,  of  certain  cottages  opposite  to  us,  or  rather  she  de^ 
scribed  them  as  poor  houses  and  hc\'els,  that  effectually  blind  our 
windows.  But  none  such  exist.  On  the  contrary,  the  opposite 
object,  and  the  only  one,  is  ah  orchard,  so  well  planted,  and  with 
trees  of  such  growth,  that  we  seem  to  look  into  a  wood,  or  rather 
to  be  surrounded  by  one.  Thus,  placed  as  we  are  in  the  midst  of 
a  village,  we  have  none  of  the  disagreeables  that  belong  to  such  a 
position;  and  the  village  itself  is  one  of  the  prettiest  I  know; 
terminated  at  one  end  by  the  church-tower,  seen  through  trees, 
and  at  the  other  by  a  very  handsome  gatev/ay,  opening  into  a  fine 
grove  of  elms,  belonging  to  our  neighbour  Courteney.  How  happy 
should  I  be  to  show  it  instead  of  describing  it  to  }'ou ! 

Adieu,  my  dear  friend.  VV.  C. 


LETTER  XC. 

To  the  Reverend  Mr.  HURDIS. 

Weston^  N'oTiember  24,  ir93. 
My  dear  Sir, 

Though  my  congratulations  have  been 
delayed,  you  have  no  friend,  numerous  as  your  friends  are,  who 
has  more  sincerely  rejoiced  in  jnmr  success  than  T.  It  v/as  no 
small  mortification  to  me  to  find  that  three  of  the  six  whom  I  had 
engaged,  were  not  qualified  to  vote.  You  have  prevailed,  how- 
ever, and  by  a  considerable  majority;  there  is,  therefore,  no  room 
left  for  regret.  When  your  short  note  arrived,  which  gave  me 
the  agreeable  news  of  your  victory,  our  friend  of  Eartham  was 
with  me,  and  shared  largely  in  the  joy  that  I  felt  on  the  occasion. 
He  left  ip.e  but  a  few  days  since,  having  spent  somewhat  moi'e  than 
a  fortnight  bere;  during  which  time  wc  employed  all  our  leisure 
hours  in  the  revisal  of  his  Life  of  Milton.  It  is  now  finished,  and 
a  very  finished  v/oi'k  it  is ;  and  one  that  v/ill  do  great  honour,  I  am 
persuaded,  to  the  biographer,  and  tiie  excellent  man,  of  injured 
memory,  who  is  the  subject  of  it.  As  to  my  own  concern  with 
the  works  of  this  first  of  poets,  v/hich  has  long  been  a  matter  of 
burthensome  contemplation,  I  have  the  happiness  to  find,  at  last, 
that  I  am  at  liberty  to  postpone  my  labours.  While  I  expected 
that  my  commentary  would  be  called  for  in  the  ensuing  spring,  \ 
looked  forward  to  the  undertaking  Avith  dismay,  not  seeing  a  sha- 
dow of  probability  that  I  should  l?e  ready  to  answer  the  demand  : 
for  this  ultimate  vevisal  cf  my^ Homer,  together  with  the  notci, 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  «3 

occupies  completely  at  present  (and  will  for  some  time  longer)  all 
the  little  leisure  that  I  have  for  study — leisure  which  I  gain  at 
this  season  of  the  year,  by  rising  long  before  day-]ight. 

You  are  now  become  a  nearer  neighbour,  and  as  your  professor- 
ship, I  hope,  will  not  engross  you  whoU)^,  will  find  an  opportunity 
to  give  me  your  company  at  Weston.  Let  me  hear  from  you  soon  ; 
tell  me  how  you  like  your  new  office,  and  v/hether  you  perform 
the  duties  of  it  Avith  pleasure  to  yourself.  With  much  pleasure 
to  others  you  will,  I  doubt  not,  and  with  equal  advantage. 

W.  C. 


LETTER  XCL 

To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 

Weston,  JVov.  29,  ir93, 
Mv  DEAR  Friend, 

I  have  risen,  while  the  owls  arc  -jtill  hoot- 
ing, to  pursue  my  accustomed  labours  in  the  mine  of  Hom.er ;  but 
before  T  enter  upon  them,  shall  give  the  first  moment  of  day-light 
to  the  purpose  of  thanking  you  for  your  last  letter,  containing  many 
pleasant  articles  of  intelligence,  with  nothing  to  abate  the  plea- 
santness of  them,  except  the  single  circumstance  that  we  are  not 
likely  to  see  you  hei-e  so  soon  as  I  expected.  My  hope  was  that  the 
first  frost  would  bring  you,  and  the  amiable  painter  with  you :  if, 
however,  you  are  prevented  by  the  business  of  your  respective 
professions,  you  arc  well  prevented,  and  I  will  endeavour  to  be  pa- 
tient. When  the  latter  was  here,  he  mentioned,  one  day,  the  sub- 
ject of  Diomede's  horses  driven  under  the  axle  of  his  chariot,  by 
the  thunder-bolt  which  fell  at  their  feet,  as  a  subject  he  had  settled 
for  his  pencil.  It  is  cei^tainly  a  noble  one,  and  therefore  w  oi'thy  of 
his  study  and  attention.  It  occurred  to  me  at  the  moment,  but  I 
know  not  what  it  was  that  made  me  forget  it  again  the  next  mo- 
ment, that  the  horses  o£-Achilles  flying  o\er  the  foss,  with  Patro- 
clus  and  Automedon  in  the  chariot,  would  be  a  good  companion  for 
it.  Should  yon  happen  to  recollect  this  when  you  next  see  him, 
you  may  submit  it,  if  you  please,  to  his  consideration.  I  stumbled 
5'csterday  on  another  subject,  which  reminded  me  of  said  excellent 
artist,  as  likely  to  aflford  a  fine  opportunity  to  the  expression  that 
he  could  give  to  it.  It  is  found  in  the  shoot ing-niatch,  in  the  twen- 
ty-third book  of  the  Iliad,  between  Mariones  and  Tcucei-.  The 
former  cuts  the  string  with  which  the  dove  is  tied  to  themast-hcad, 
and  sets  her  at  liberty  ;  the  latter,  standing  at  his  side,  in  all  the 
eagerness  of  emulation,  points  an  arrow  at  the  mark  with  his 
right  hand,  while,  with  his  left,  he  snatches  the  bow  fn-m  liJs  com- 


$4  LIFE  OT  COXWER. 

petitor.    He  is  a  fine  poetical  figure :  but  Mr.  Lawrence  himself 
must  judge  whether  or  not  he  promises  as  well  for  the  canvass. 

He  does  great  honour  to  my  physiognomy  by  his  intention  to  get 
it  engraved  ;  and  though  I  think  I  foresee  that  this  private  publi- 
cation wiU  grow,  in  time,  into  a  publication  of  absolute  publicity,  I 
find  it  impossible  to  be  dissatisfied  with  any  thing  that  seems  eli- 
gible both  to  him  and  you.  To  say  the  truth,  when  a  man  has 
once  turned  his  mind  inside  out,  for  the  inspection  of  all  who 
choose  to  inspect  it,  to  m.ake  a  secret  of  his  face  seems  but  little 
better  than  a  self-contradiction.  At  the  same  time,  however,  I 
shall  be  best  pleased  if  it  be  kept,  according  to  your  intentions,  as 
a  rarity. 

I  have  lost  Hayley,  and  begin  to  be  uneasy  at  not  liearing  from 
him :  tell  me  about  liim  when  you  write. 

I  should  be  happy  to  have  a  work  of  mine  embellished  by  Law- 
rence, and  made  a  companion  for  a  work  of  Hayley's.  It  is  an  event 
to  which  I  look  forward  with  the  utmost  complacence.  I  cannot 
tell  you  what  a  relief  I  feel  it,  not  to  be  pressed  for  Milton. 

W.  C. 


LETTER   XCn. 
To  SAMUEL  ROSE,  Esquire. 
My  dear  Friend,  December  8,  IITQS. 

In  my  last  I  forgot  to  thank  you  for  the 
box  of  books,  containing  also  the  pamphlets.  We  have  read,  that 
is  to  say,  my  cousin  has,  who  reads  to  us  in  an  evening,  the  histoiy 
of  Jonatlian  Wild,  and  found  it  liighly  entertaining.  Tlie  satire 
on  great  men  is  witty,  and,  I  believe,  perfectly  just.  We  have  no 
censure  to  pass  on  it,  imless  that  we  think  the  character  of  Mi'S. 
Hartfree  not  well  sustained  ;  not  quite  delicate  in  the  latter  part 
of  it ;  and  that  the  constant  effect  of  her  charms  upon  every  man 
who  sees  her  has  a  sameness  in  it  that  is  tiresome,  and  betrays  either 
much  carelessness,  or  idleness,  or  lack  of  invention.  It  is  possible, 
indeed,  that  the  author  might  intend,  by  this  circumstance,  a  sa- 
tirical glance  at  novelists,  whose  heroines  are  generally  aU  be- 
witching; but  it  is  a  fault  that  he  had  better  have  noticed  in  ano- 
ther manner,  and  not  have  exemplified  in  his  own. 

The  first  volume  of  Man  as  he  is,  has  lain  unread  in  my  study 
window  this  twelvemonth,  and  would  have  been  returned  unread 
to  its  owner,  had  not  my  cousin  come  in  good  time  to  save  it  from 
that  disgrace.  We  are  now  reading  it,  and  find  it  excellent ; 
abounding  with  wit  and  just  sentiment,  and  knowledge  both  of 
books  and  men.     Adieu.  W.  C.    • 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  93 

LETTER  XCIII. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

December  8,  ITQS. 

I  have  waited,  and  waited  impatiently, 

for  a    line  from  you,  and   am  at  last  determined  to  send   you 

one,  to  inquire  what  is  become  of  you,  and  why  you  are  silent  so 

much  longer  tlian  usual. 

I  want  to  know  many  things  which  only  j'ou  can  tell  me,  but 
especially  I  want  to  know  what  has  been  the  issue  of  your  confer- 
ence with  Nichol :  has  he  seen  your  work  ?  I  am  impatient  for  the 
appearance  of  it,  because  impatient  to  have  the  spotless  credit  of 
the  great  poet's  character,  as  a  man  and  a  citizen,  vindicated  as 
it  ought  to  be,  and  as  it  never  will  be  again. 

It  is  a  great  relief  to  me  that  my  Miltonic  labours  ai-c  sus- 
pended. I  am  now  busy  in  transcribing  the  alterations  of  Homer, 
having  finished  the  whole  revisal.  I  must  then  write  a  new  pre- 
face, which  done  I  shall  endeavour  immediately  to  descant  on  The 
fourJges.     AcUeuj  my  dear  brother. 

W.  C. 


The  reader  may  now  be  anxious  to  learn  some  particulars  of 
the  projected  poem,  which  has  been  repeatedly  mentioned  under 
the  title  of  "  The  four  Ages ;''  a  poem  to  which  the  mind  of 
Cowper  looked  eagerly  forward,  as  to  a  new  and  highly  promising 
field  for  his  excursive  and  benevolent  fancy.  The  idea  had  been 
suggested  to  him  in  tlie  year  1791,  by  a  very  amiable  clerical 
neighbour,  Mr.  Buchanan,  Avho,  in  the  humble  curacy  of  Raven- 
stone,  (a  little  sequestered  village  within  a  distance  of  an  easy 
walk  from  Weston)  possesses,  in  a  scene  of  rustic  privacy,  such 
extensive  scholarship,  such  gentleness  of  manners,  and  such  a  con- 
templative dignity  of  mind,  as  would  certainly  raise  him  to  a  more 
suitable,  and,  indeed,  to  a  conspicuous  situation,  if  the  professional 
success  of  a  divine  were  the  immediate  consequence  of  exemplary 
merit.  This  gentleman,  who  had  occasionally  enjoyed  the 
gratification  of  visiting  Cowper,  suggested  to  him,  with  a  becom- 
ing diffidence,  the  project  of  a  new  poem  on  the  four  distinct 
periods  of  life,  infancy,  youth,  manhood,  and  old  age.  He  im- 
parted his  ideas  to  the  poet  by  a  letter,  in  which  he  observed, 
with  equal  modesty  and  truth,  that  Cowper  was  particularly  quali- 
fied to  relish  and  to  do  justice  to  the  subject;  a  subject  M'hich  he 
supposed  not  hitherto  treated  expressly,  as  its  importance  de- 
Bcrves,  by  any  poet,  ancient  or  modern. 


$6  LIFE  OF  COVVPER. 

,Mr.  Buchanan  added  to  this  letter  a  brief  sketch  of  contents 
for  the  projected  composition.  This  hasty  sketch  he  enlarged  by 
the  kind  encouragement  of  Cowper.  Hoav  cheerfully  the  poet 
received  the  idea,  and  how  liberally  he  applauded  the  worthy 
divine  who  suggested  it,  will  appear  from  the  following  billet, 
written  immediately  on  the  receipt  of  the  more  ample  sketch. 


To  the  Reverend  Mr.  BUCHANAN. 

Weston,  May  11,  1793* 
My  dear  Sir, 

You  have  sent  me  a  beautiful  poem, 
tvanting  nothing  but  metre.  I  would  to  heaven  that  you  would, 
give  it  that  requisite  yourself;  for  he  who  could  make  the  sketch, 
cannot  but  be  well  qualified  to  finish.  But  if  you  will  not,  I  will, 
provided  always,  nevertheless,  that  God  gives  me  ability ;  for  it 
will  require  no  common  share  to  do  justice  to  your  conceptions.  1 
am  much  yours, 

w.  c* 

Your  little  messenger  vanished  before  I  could  catch  him. 


Various  impediments  rendered  it  hardly  possible  for  Cowper  to 
devote  himself  as  he  wished  to  do  to  the  immediate  prosecution  of 
a  plan  so  promising;  yet  he  cherished  the  idea  for  some  years 
in  his  mind,  and  was  particularh'  pleased  (as  the  reader  may  recol- 
lect from  a  passage  in  one  of  his  letters  to  me)  with  a  prospect 
that  this  intended  poem  might  form  a  portion  of  a  very  ample 
original  confederate  work,  which  we  hoped  to  produce  in  concert 
■with  the  united  powers  of  some  admirable  artists,  who  were  justly 
dear  to  us  both. 

All  who  delight  to  accompany  the  genius  of  Cowper  in  animated 
flights  of  moral  contemplation,  will  deeply  regret  that  he  was  pre- 
cluded, by  a  vai'iety  of  trouble,  from  indulging  his  ardent  imagina- 
tion in  a  v/ork  that  would  have  afforded  him  such  ample  scope  for 
aU  the  sweetness  and  all  the  sublimity  of  his  spirit.  His  felicity 
of  description,  and  his  exquisite  sensibility  ;  his  experience  of  life, 
and  his  sanctity  of  character,  rendered  him  singularly  fit  and 
worthy  to  delineate  the  progress  of  nature  in  all  the  different 
stages  of  human  existence. 

A  poem  of  such  extent  and  diversity,  happily  completed  by  such 
a  pcet,  would  be  a  national  treasure  of  infinite  value  to  the  country 
that  gave  it  birth,  and  I  had  fervently  hoped  that  England  might 
receive  it  from  the  hand  of  Cowper. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  97 

With  a  regret  proportioned  to  those  hopes  I  now  impart  to  my 
readers  the  minute  and  imperfect  fragment  of  a  project  so  mighty. 
Yet  even  the  few  verses  which  Cowper  had  thrown  on  paper,  as 
the  commencement  of  such  a  work,  will  be  i-ead  with  pecuHar 
interest,  if  there  is  truth,  as  I  feel  there  is,  in  the  following  re- 
mark of  the  elder  Pliny. 

"  Suprema  opera  artificum,  imperfectasque  Tabulus,  in  majoi'i 
"  admiratione  esse  quam  perfecta  ;  Quippe  in  iis  lineamenta  reli- 
"  qua  ipsxque  cogitationcs  artificum  spectantur,  atque  in  lenoci- 
"  nio  commendationis  dolor  est: — Manus,  cum  id  agerent  extinctsc, 
"  desiderantur," 


THE  FOUR  AGES. 

A  brief  Fragment  of  an  extensive  projected  Poerrit 

"  I  could  be  well  content,  allow 'd  the  use 

"  Of  past  experience,  and  the  wisdom  glean 'd 

"  From  worn-out  follies,  now  acknowledg'd  such, 

*'  To  re-commence  life's  trial,  in  the  hope 

"  Of  fewer  errors,  on  a  second  proof!" 

Thus,  while  grey  evening  lull'd  the  wind,  and  call'd 
Fresh  odours  from  the  shrubb'rj'  at  my  side, 
Taking  my  lonely  winding  walk  I  mus'd, 
And  held  accustom'd  conference  with  my  heart ; 
'\^'lien,  from  within  it,  thus  a  voice  replied. 

<'  Could'st  thou  in  truth  ?  and  art  thou  taught  at  length 
"  This  wisdom,  and  but  this  from  all  the  past  ? 
"  Is  not  the  pardon  of  thy  long  arrear, 
"  Time  wasted,  violated  laws,  abuse 
*'  Of  talents,  judgments,  mercies,  better  far 
"  Than  opportunity  vouchsaf 'd  to  err 
"  With  less  excuse,  and  haply,  worse  effect?" 

I  heard,  and  acquiesced  :  Then  to  and  fro 
Oft  pacing,  as  the  mariner  his  deck, 
My  grav'lly  bounds,  from  self  to  human  kind 
I  pass'dj  and  next  consider'd — WTiat  is  Man  ? 

Knows  he  his  origin  ? — Can  he  ascend 
P)\'  reminiscence  to  his  earliest  date  ? 
VOL.  II.  0 


A 


98  LIFE  OF  COWPER.. 

Slept  he  in  Adam  ?  and  in  those  from  hhn 

Through  num'rous  generations,  till  he  found, 

At  length,  his  dcstin'd  moment  to  be  born  ? 

Or  was  he  not,  till  fashion 'd  in  the  womb  ? 

Deep  myst'ries  both,  which  schoolmen  must  have  toil'd 

To  unriddle,  and  have  left  them  myst'ries  still. 

It  is  an  evil  incident  to  man. 
And  of  the  worst,  that  unexplor'd  he  leaves 
Truths  useful,  and  attainable  with  ease, 
To  search  forbidden  deeps,  where  myst'ry  lie& 
Not  to  be  solv'd,  and  useless  if  it  might. 
Myst'ries  are  food  for  Angels ;  they  digest 
With  ease,  and  find  them  nutriment ;  but  man, 
While  yet  he  dwells  below,  must  stoop  to  gleau 
His  manna  from  the  ground,  or  starve,  and  die. 

It  may,  in  some  degree,  alleviate  the  regret  which  lovers  of 
poetry  must  feel  that  this  interesting  project  was  never  accom- 
plished by  Cowper,  to  be  informed  that  a  modern  poem  on  the  four 
Ages  of  Man  was  written  by  M.  Werthmuller,  a  citizen  of  Zurich, 
and  translated  into  Latin  verse  by  Dr.  Olstrochi,  librarian  to  the 
Ambi'osian  library  at  Milan.  This  performance  gave  rise  to  ano- 
ther German  poem  on  the  four  Ages  of  Women,  by  M.  Zacharie, 
professor  of  poetry  at  Brunswick,  an  elegant  little  work,  that 
breathes  a  spirit  of  tenderness  and  piety. 

The  increasing  infirmities  of  Cowper's  aged  companion,  Mrs. 
Unwin,  his  filial  solicitude  to  alleviate  her  sufferings,  and  the 
gathering  clouds  of  deeper  despondency  that  began  to  settle  on 
his  mind  in  the  first  month  of  the  year  1794,  not  only  rendered  it 
impossible  for  him  to  advance  in  any  great  original  performance, 
but,  to  use  his  own  expressive  words  in  the  close  of  his  correspond- 
ence with  his  highly  valued  friend  Mr.  Rose,  made  all  composi- 
tion, either  of  poetry  or  prose,  impracticable.  Writing  to  that 
friend  in  January,  1794,  he  says,  "  I  have  just  ability  enough  to 
transcribe,  which  is  all  that  I  have  to  do  at  present :  God  knows 
that  I  write,  at  this  moment,  under  the  pressure  of  sadness  not  to 
be  described." 

It  was  a  spectacle  that  might  awaken  compassion  in  the  sternest 
of  human  characters,  to  sec  the  health,  the  comfort,  and  the  little 
fortune  of  a  man  so  distinguished  by  intellectual  endowments  and 
by  moral  excellence,  perishing  most  deplorably.  A  sight  so  affect- 
ing made  many  friends  of  Cowper  solicitous  and  importunate  that 
his  declining  life  should  be  honourabl}-  protect>ed  by  public  munifi- 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  9& 

tence.  Mei\  of  all  pjirties  agreed  that  a  pension  might  be  granted 
to  an  author  of  his  acknowledged  merit  with  graceful  propriety, 
and  we  might  apply  to  him,  on  this  topic,  the  very  expressive 
words  wliicli  the  poet  Claudian  addresses,  on  a  different  occasion, 
to  his  favourite  hero  : 

Suffragia  Viilgi 
Jam  tibi  detulerant,  quidquid  mox  dtbuit  aula. 

It  was  devoutly  to  be  wished,  that  the  declining  spirits  of  Cow- 
per  should  be  speedily  animated  and  sustained  by  assistance  of  this 
nature,  because  the  growing  influence  of  melancholy  not  only  filled 
him  with  distressing  ideas  of  his  own  fortune,  but  threatened  to 
rob  him  of  the  power  to  make  any  kind  of  exertion  in  his  own  be- 
half. His  situation  and  his  merits  were  perfectly  understood,  hu- 
manely felt,  and  honourably  acknowledged  by  persons  who,  while 
they  declared  that  he  ought  to  receive  an  immediate  public  sup- 
port, seemed  to  possess  both  tlic  inclination  and  the  pov/er  to  en- 
sure it.  But  such  is  the  difficulty  of  doing  real  good,  experienced 
even  by  the  great  and  the  powerfid,  or  so  apt  are  statesmen  to  for- 
get the  pressing  exigence  of  meritorious  individuals,  in  the  distrac- 
tions of  official  perplexity,  that  month  after  month  elapsed,  in 
which  the  intimate  friends  of  Cowper  confidently,  yet  vainly  ex- 
pected to  sec  him  happily  rescued  from  some  of  the  darkest  evils 
impending  over  him,  by  an  honourable  provision  for  life. 

Imagination  can  hardly  devise  any  human  condition  more  truly 
affecting  than  the  state  of  the  poet  at  this  period.  His  generous 
and  faitliful  guardian,  Mrs.  Unwin,  who  had  preserved  him 
thi-ough  seasons  of  the  severest  calamity,  was  now,  with  her  facul- 
ties and  fortune  impaired,  sinking  fast  into  second  childhood.  The 
distress  of  heart  that  he  felt  in  beholding  the  cruel  change  in  a 
companion  so  justly  dear  to  him,  conspiring  with  his  constitutional 
melancholy,  was  gradually  undermining  the  exquisite  faculties  of 
his  mind.  But  deprcst  as  he  was  by  these  complicated  afflictions, 
Providence  v^^as  far  from  deserting  this  excellent  man.  His  female 
relation,  whose  regard  he  had  cultivated  as  his  favourite  corres- 
pondent, now  devoted  herself  very  nobly  to  the  superintendence  of 
a  house,  whose  two  interesting  inhabitants  were  rendered,  by  age 
and  trouble,  almost  incapal>le  of  attending  to  the  ordinary  offices 
of  life. 

Those  only  wlio  have  lived  with  the  superannuated  and  the  me- 
lancholy, can  properly  appreciate  the  value  of  such  magnanimous 
fricndsliip,  or  perfectly  apprehend  what  personal  sufferings  it  must 
iN-st  the  mortal  who  exerts  it,  if  that  mortal  has  received  from 


100  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

nature  a  frame  of  compassionate  sensibility.  The  lady  to  whom  I 
allude  has  felt  but  two  severely,  in  her  own  health,  the  heavy  tax 
that  mortality  is  forced  to  pay  for  a  resolute  perseverance  in  such 
painful  duty.  ' 

The  two  last  of  Cowper's  letters  to  me,  that  breathe  a  spirit  of 
mental  activity  and  cheerful  friendship,  were  written  in  the  close 
of  the  year  1793  and  in  the  beginning  of  the  next.  They  arose 
from  an  incident  that  it  may  be  proper  to  relate  before  I  insert 
the  letters. 

On  my  return  from  Weston  I  had  given  an  account  of  the  poet 
to  his  old  friend  Lord  Thurlow.  That  learned  and  powerful  cri- 
tic, in  speaking  of  Cowper's  Homer,  happened  to  declare  himself 
not  satisfied  with  his  version  of  Hector's  admirable  prayer  in  ca- 
ressing his  child.  We  both  ventured  on  new  translations  of  the 
prayer,  which  I  sent  immediately  to  Cowper,  and  the  following 
letters  will  prove  with  what  just  and  manly  freedom  of  spirit  he 
was  at  this  time  able  to  criticise  the  composition  of  his  friends  and 
his  own. 


LETTER  XCIV. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

Becetnber  17,  1793. 
Oh  Jove  !  and  all  ye  gods  1  grant  this  my  son 
To  prove,  like  me,  pre-eminent  in  Ti'oy  ! 
In  valour  such,  and  firmness  of  command  ! 
Be  he  extoll'd,  when  he  returns  from  fight, 
As  far  his  Sire's  superior  !  may  he  slay 
His  enemy,  bring  home  his  gory  spoils, 
And  may  his  mother's  heart  o'ei'flow  with  joy  I 

I  rose  this  morning  at  six  o'clock,  on  pur- 
pose to  translate  this  prayer  again,  and  to  write  to  my  dear  brother. 
Here  you  have  it,  such  as  it  is,  not  perfectly  according  to  my 
own  liking,  but  as  well  as  I  could  make  it,  and  I  think  better  than 
cither  your's  or  Lord  Thurlow's.  You,  with  your  six  lines,  have 
made  yourself  stiff  and  ungraceful,  and  he,  with  his  seven,  has  pro- 
duced as  good  prose  as  heart  can  wish,  but  no  poetry  at  all.  A 
scrupulous  attention  to  the  latter  has  spoiled  you  both ;  you  have 
neither  the  spirit  nor  the  manner  of  Homer.  A  portion  of  both 
may  be  found,  I  believe,  in  my  version,  but  not  so  much  as  I  could 
wish :  it  is  better,  however,  than  the  printed  one.  His  Lordship's 
two  first  lines  I  cannot  very  well  understand:  he  seems  to  me  to 
give  a  sense  to  the  original  that  does  not  belong  to  it.     Hector,  I 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  101 

apprehend,  does  not  say,  "  Grant  that  he  may  prove  himself  my 
son,  and  be  eminent,"  8cc.  but,  "  Grant  that  this  ni)-  son  may  prove 
eminent;"  which  is  a  matei'ial  difference.  In  the  latter  sense  I 
find  the  simplicity  of  an  ancient ;  in  the  former,  that  is  to  say,  iti 
the  notion  of  a  man's  proving  himself  his  father's  son  by  similar 
merit,  the  finesse  and  dexterity  of  a  mwlern.  His  Lordship,  too, 
makes  the  man  who  gives  the  young  hero  his  commendation  the 
person  who  returns  from  battle;  whereas  Homer  makes  the  young 
hero  himself  that  person,  at  least  if  Clarke  is  a  just  interpreter, 
which  I  suppose  is  hardly  to  be  disputed. 

If  my  old  friend  would  look  into  my  preface,  he  would  find  a 
principle  laid  down  there,  which,  perhaps,  it  would  not  be  easy  to 
invalidate,  and  which,  properly  attended  to,  would  equally  secure  a 
translation  from  stiffness  and  from  wildness.  The  principle  I 
mean  is  this  :  "  Close,  but  not  so  close  as  to  be  servile  ;  free,  but 
not  so  free  as  to  be  licentious."  A  superstitious  fidelity  loses  the 
spirit,  and  a  loose  deviation  the  sense  of  the  translated  author — a 
happy  moderation,  in  either  case,  is  the  only  possible  way  of  pre- 
serving both. 

Thus  have  I  disciplined  you  both,  and  now,  if  you  please,  j'ou 
may  both  discipline  me.  I  shall  not  enter  my  version  in  my  book 
till  it  has  undergone  your  strictures  at  least,  and  should  you  write 
to  the  noble  critic  again,  you  are  welcome  to  submit  it  to  his.  We 
are  three  aukward  fellows  indeed,  if  we  cannot  amongst  us  make 
a  tolerable  good  translation  of  six  lines  of  Homer.     Adieu. 

VV.  C. 


LETTER  XCV. 
To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire. 

JVcston,  January  5,  1794. 
My  DEAR  Hayley, 

I  have  waited,  but  waited  in  vain,  for  a 
propitious  moment  when  I  might  give  my  old  friend's  objections  the 
consideration  they  deserve.  I  shall,  at  last,  be  forced  to  send  a 
vague  answer,  unworthy  to  be  sent  to  a  person  accustomed,  like  him, 
to  close  reasoning  and  abstruse  discussion,  for  I  rise  after  ill  rest, 
and  with  a  frame  of  mind  perfectly  unsuited  to  the  occasion.  I  sit, 
too,  at  the  window,  for  light  sake,  where  I  am  so  cold  that  my  pen 
slips  out  of  my  fingers.  First  I  Avill  give  }^ou  a  translation,  de 
novo,  of  this  untranslatable  prayer.  It  is  shaped,  as  nearly  as  I 
could  contrive,  to  his  Lordshi]i's  idc;is,  but  I  have  little  hoi)c  that 
it  will  Katisfv  him. 


102  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

Grant  Jove,  and  all  3^6  gods,  that  this,  my  son, 
Be,  as  myself  have  been,  illustrious  here  I 
A  valiant  man  I  and  let  him  reign  in  Troy ! 
May  aU  who  witness  his  return  from  fight 
Hereafter,  say — He  far  excels  his  sire ; 
And  let  him  bring  back  gory  trophies,  stript 
From  foes  slain  by  him,  to  his  mother's  joy. 

Imlac,  in  Rasselas,  says,  I  forget  to  whom,  "  You  have  convinced 
Xne  that  it  is  impossible  to  be  a  poet."  In  like  manner  I  might 
say  to  his  Lordship,  you  have  convinced  me  that  it  is  impossible  to 
be  a  translator.  To  be  a  translator,  on  his  terms  at  least,  is,  I 
am  sure,  impossible.  On  his  terms  I  would  defy  Homer  himself, 
were  he  alive,  to  translate  the  Paradise  Lost  into  Greek.  Yet 
Milton  had  Homer  much  in  his  eye,  when  he  composed  that  poem: 
whereas  Homer  never  thought  of  me  or  my  translation.  There 
are  minutis  in  every  language,  which,  transfused  into  anothei',  will 
spoil  the  version.  Such  extreme  fidelity  is,  in  fact,  unfaithful.  Such 
close' resemblance  takes  away  all  likeness.  The  original  is  elegant, 
easy,  natural ;  the  copy  is  clumsy,  constrained,  unnatural.  To 
what  is  this  owing?  To  the  adoption  of  terms  not  congenial  to  your 
purpose ;  and  of  a  context,  such  as  no  man  writing  an  original 
work  would  make  use  of.  Homer  is  every  thing  that  a  poet  should 
be.  A  translation  of  Homer  so  made,  will  be  every  thing  that  a 
translation  of  Homer  should  not  be  ;  because  it  will  be  written  in 
no  language  under  heaven.  It  will  be  English,  and  it  will  be 
Greek,  and  therefore  it  will  be  neither.  He  is  the  man,  whoever 
he  be,  (I  do  not  pretend  to  be  that  man  myself)  he  is  the  man  best 
qualified  as  a  translator  of  Homer,  who  has  drenched,  and  steeped, 
and  soaked  himself  in  the  effusions  of  his  genius,  till  he  has  im- 
bibed their  colour  to  the  bone,  and  who,  when  he  is  thus  dyed 
through  and  through,  distinguishing  between  what  is  essentially 
Greek,  and  what  may  be  habited  in  English,  rejects  the  former, 
and  is  faithful  to  the  latter,  as  far  as  the  purposes  of  fine  poetry 
will  permit,  and  no  farther.  This,  I  think,  may  be  easily  proved. 
Homer  is  every  where  remarkable  either  for  ease,  dignity,  o? 
energy  of  expression ;  for  gi'andeur  of  conception,  and  a  majestic 
fioAv  of  numbers.  If  we  copy  him  so  closely  as  to  make  every  one 
of  these  excellent  properties  of  his  absolutely  unattainable,  which 
■will  certainly  be  tlie  effect  of  too  close  a  cop;,",  instead  of  translat- 
ing we  murder  liim.  Therefore,  after  all  that  his  Lordship  has 
said,  I  still  hold  freedom  to  be  an  indispensi!)lc.  Freedom,  I  mean, 
with  respect  to  the  expression ;  freedom  so  limited,  as  never  to 
leave  behind  the  matter;  but  at  the  same  time  indulged  with  a 


LIFE  OF  COVVPER.  103 

sufficient  scope  to  secure  the  spirit,  and  as  much  as  possible  of  the 
manner.  I  say  as  ir^uch  as  possible,  because  an  English  manner 
must  chfFer  from  a  Greek  one,  in  order  to  be  graceful ;  and  for  this 
there  is  no  remedy.  Can  an  ungraceful,  aukward  translation  of 
Homer  be  a  good  one  ?  No  :  but  a  graceful,  easy,  natural,  faith- 
ful version  of  him — will  not  that  be  a  good  one?  Yes:  allow  me 
but  this,  and  I  insist  upon  it  that  such  a  one  may  be  produced 
on  my  principles,  and  can  be  produced  on  no  other. 

I  have  not  had  time  to  criticise  his  Lordship's  other  version. 
You  know  how  little  time  I  have  for  any  thing,  and  can  tell 
him  so. 

Adieu,  my  dear  brother.  I  have  now  tired  both  you  and  my- 
self; and,  with  the  love  of  the  whole  trio,  i-emain  j'ours  ever, 

\\\  C. 

Reading  his  Lordship's  sentiments  over  again,  I  am  inclined  to 
think,  that  in  all  I  have  said  I  have  only  given  him  back  the  same 
in  other  terms.  He  disallows  both  the  absolute  Jree,  and  the  ab- 
solute close :  so  do  I ;  and,  if  I  understand  myself,  have  said  so  in 
niy  preface.  He  wishes  or  recommends  a  medium,  though  he  will 
not  call  it  so:  so  do  I ;  only  we  express  it  differently.  What  is  it, 
then,  that  we  dispute  about  ?  My  head  is  not  good  enough  to-day  to 
discover. 


Tliese  letters  were  followed  by  such  a  silence  on  the  part  of  my 
invaluable  correspondent,  as  filled  me  with  the  severest  apprehen- 
sions :  because  I  well  knew  that,  while  he  retained  any  glimmer- 
ings of  Uiental  health,  his  affectionate  spirit  was  eager  to  imbur- 
thCii  itself  to  a  friend,  of  whose  sympathy,  in  all  his  sufferings,  he 
was  perfectly  assured,  Tlie  accounts  of  him  with  which  I  was  fa- 
voured by  his  amiable  i-elation  (who,  shocked  as  she  Avas  by  the 
helpless  state  and  deplorable  infirmities  of  Mrs.  Unwin,  now 
resided  with  these  piteous  invalids,)  increased  my  anxiety  for  my 
dejected  and  silent  friend. 

Little  as  the  probability  appeai'ed  that  my  presence  could  render 
him  any  essential  service,  I  was  induced  to  visit  Weston  once 
more,  by  the  following  fi-iendly  exhortation,  in  a  letter  from  Cow- 
pcr's  compassionate  neighbour,  Mr.  Greatheed — the  clergyman 
whom  Cowper  himself  had  taught  me  to  esteem  on  our  first  ac- 
quahitance. 


104  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

From  the  Reverend  Mr.  GREATHEED, 

To  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  Esquire.  ' 

JVewJiort-Pagnel,  April  8,  1?'94, 
Dear  Sir, 

Lady  Hesketh's  correspondence  acquainted 
you  with  the  melancholy  relapse  of  our  dear  friend  at  Weston ;  but 
I  am  uncertain  whether  you  know  that,  in  tlie  last  fortnight,  he 
has  refused  food  of  every  kind,  except  now  and  then  a  very  small 
piece  of  toasted  bread,  dipped  generally  in  water,  sometimes  mixed 
with  a  little  -w'ine.  This,  her  Ladyship  informs  me,  was  the  case 
till  last  Saturday,  since  when  he  has  eat  a  little  at  each  family 
meal.  He  persists  in  refusing  such  medicines  as  are  indispensible 
to  his  state  of  body.  In  such  circumstances,  his  long  continuance 
in  life  cannot  be  expected.  How  devoutly  to  be  wished  is  the  alle- 
viation of  his  danger  and  distress !  You,  dear  Sir,  who  know  so  well 
the  worth  of  our  beloved  and  admired  friend,  sympathize  with  his 
affliction,  and  deprecate  his  loss,  doubtless,  in  no  ordinary  degree. 
You  have  already  most  eiFectually  expressed  and  proved  the 
•warmth  of  your  friendship.  I  cannot  think  that  any  thing  but  your 
society  would  have  been  sufficient,  during  the  infirmity  under  whicli 
his  mind  has  long  been  oppressed,  to  have  supported  him  against 
the  shock  of  Mrs.  Unwin's  paralytic  attack.  I  am  certain  that  no- 
thing else  could  have  prevailed  upon  him  to  undertake  the  jour- 
ney to  Eartham.  You  have  succeeded  where  his  other  friends 
knew  they  could  not,  and  where  they  apprehended  no  one  could. 
How  natural,  therefore,  nay,  how  reasonable  is  it  for  them  to  look 
to  you,  as  most  likely  to  be  instrumental,  under  the  blessing  of 
God,  for  relief  in  the  present  distressing  and  alarming  crisis?  It 
is,  indeed,  scarcely  attemptable  to  ask  any  person  to  take  such  a 
journey,  and  involve  himself  in  so  melancholy  a  scene,  with  au 
uncertaintj"-  of  the  desired  success — increased  as  the  apparent  diffi- 
culty is  by  dear  Mr.  Cowper's  aversion  to  ail  company,  and  by 
poor  Mrs.  TJnwin's  mental  and  bodily  infirmities.  On  these 
accounts  Lady  Hesketh  dares  not  ask  it  of  you,  rejoiced  as  she 
would  be  at  your  arrival.  Am  not  I,  dear  Sir,  a  very  presump- 
tuous person,  who,  in  the  face  of  all  opposition,  dare  do  this  ? 
I  am  emboldened  by  those  two  powerful  supporters,  conscience 
and  experience.  Was  I  at  Eartham,  I  would  certainly  under- 
take the  lal)our  I  presume  to  recommend,  for  the  bare  possibility 
qf  restoring  Mr.  Cowper  to  himself,  to  his  friends,  to  the  publiqj 
and  to  God. 


I.IFE  OF  COWPER.  105 

The  benevolent  wishes  of  this  sincere  and  fervent  advocate  fot 
*jenius  and  virtue,  sinking  under  calamity,  were  far  from  being 
accomplished  by  my  arrjval  at  Weston.  My  unhappy  friend  was 
too  much  overwhelmed  by  his  oppressive  malady,  to  show  even 
the  least  glimmering  of  satisfaction  at  the  appearance  of  a  guest 
whom  he  used  to  receive  with  the  most  lively  expressions  of 
aiFectionate  delight. 

It  is  the  nature  of  this  tremendous  melancholy  not  only  to 
enshroud  and  stifle  the  finest  faculties  of  the  mind,  but  it  suspends, 
and  apparently  annihilates  for  a  time,  the  strongest  and  best- 
rooted  affections  of  the  heart.  I  had  frequent  and  painful  occa- 
sion to  observe,  in  this  affecting  visit  to  my  suffering  friend, 
that  he  seemed  to  shrink,  at  times,  from  every  human  creature, 
except  from  the  gentle  voice  of  my  soil. 

This  exception  I  attributed  partly  to  the  peculiar  charm  which 
is  generally  found  in  the  manners  of  tender  ingenuous  children, 
and  partly  to  that  uncommon  sweetness  of  character  which  had 
inspired  Cowper  with  a  degree  of  parental  partiality  towards  this 
highly  promising  youth. 

1  had  hoped,  indeed,  that  his  influence,  at  this  season,  might  be 
superior  to  my  own,  over  the  dejected  spirit  of  my  friend ';  but 
though  it  was  So  to  a  considerable  degree,  our  united  efforts  to 
cheer  and  amuse  him  were  utterly  frustrated  by  his  calamitous 
depression. 

I  may  yet  hope  that  my  distressing  visit  to  this  very  dear 
sufferer  was  productive  of  some  little  good.  My  presence  afforded 
an  opportunity  to  his  excellent  relation,  Lady  Hesketh,  who 
acted  at  this  time  as  his  immediate  guardian,  to  quit  her  charge 
for  a  few  days,  that  she  might  have  a  personal  conference  con- 
cerning him  with  the  eminent  Dr.  Willis.  A  friendly  letter  from 
Lord  Thurlow  to  that  celebrated  physician  had  requested  his 
attention  to  the  highly  interesting  sufferer.  Dr.  Willis  prescribed 
for  Cowper,  and  saw  him  at  Weston ;  but  not  with  that  success 
and  felicity  which  made  his  medical  skill,  on  another  most  awful, 
occasion,  the  source  of  national  delight  and  exultation. 

Indeed,  the  extraordinary  state  of  Cowper  appeared  to  abound 
with  circumstances  very  unfavourable  to  his  mental  relief.  The 
daily  sight  of  a  being  reduced  to  such  deplorable  imbecility  as  now 
overwhelmed  Mrs.  Unwui  was,  in  itself,  sufficient  to  i)lunge  a, 
t-ender  spirit  in  extreme  melancholy;  yet  to  separate  two  friends 
so  long  accuston\ed  to  minister,  with  the  purest  and  most  vigilant 
benevolence,  to  the  infirmities  of  each  other,  was  a  measure  so 
pregnant  with  complicated  distraction,  that  it  could  not  be  advised 
or  attempted.     It  remained  only  to  palliate  the  sufferings  of  each, 

yoL,  IX.  I' 


lop  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

in  their  present  most  pitiable  condition,  and  to  trust  in  the  mercjr 
of  that  God  who  had  supported  them  together  through  periods 
of  very  dark  affliction,  though  not  so  doubly  deplorable  as  the 
present. 

I  had  formerly  I'egarded  Weston  as  a  scene  that  exhibited  hu- 
man nature  in  a  most  delightful  point  of  view :  I  had  applauded 
there  no  common  triumphs  of  genius  and  of  friendship.  The  con- 
trast that  I  now  contemplated  has  often  led  me  to  repeat  (with 
such  feelings  as  those  only  who  have  surveyed  a  contrast  so  de- 
plorable can  perfectly  conceive)  the  following  pathetic  exclama- 
tion in  the  Sampson  Agonistes  of  Milton : 

"  God  of  our  Fathers,  what  is  man  ! 

******* 

"  Since  such  as  Thou  hast  solemnly  elected, 

*'  With  gifts  and  graces  eminently  adorned ; 

******* 

"  Yet  towards  these  thus  dignified.  Thou  oft, 

"  Amidst  their  height  of  noon, 

"  Changest  thy  count'nance,  and  thy  hand,  with  no  regard 

"  Of  highest  favours  past 

"  From  Thee  on  tliem,  or  them  to  Thee  of  service. 

******** 

"  So  deal  not  with  this  once  thy  glorious  champion  ! 

"  Wliat  do  I  beg  ?     How  hast  thou  dealt  already  ! 

"  Behold  him  in  this  state  calamitous,  and  turn 

<'  His  labours,  for  thou  canst,  to  peaceful  end  I" 

In  the  spirit  of  this  prayer  every  being  sympathized  who  had 
enjoyed  a  personal  acquaintance  with  Cowper  in  his  happier  days, 
or  felt  the  beneficent  influence  of  his  unclouded  mind.  But,  for- 
reasons  inscrutable  to  human  apprehension,  it  was  the  will  of 
Heaven  that  this  admirable  and  meritorious  invalid  should  pass 
through  a  length  of  sufferings,  on  which  I  am  very  far  from  being 
disposed  to  detain  the  attention  of  my  reader : 

"  Animus  meminisse  horret,  luctuque  refugit." 

I  shall  therefore  only  say,  that  although  it  has  been  my  lot  to  be 
acquainted  with  affliction  in  a  variety  of  shapes,  I  hardly  ever  felt 
tlie  anguish  of  sympathy  with  an  afflicted  friend  in  a  severer  de- 
gree than  during  the  few  weeks  that  I  passed  with  Cowper  at  this 
season  of  his  sufferings.  The  pain  that  I  endured  from  this  sym- 
pathy waS;,  I  believe,  very  visible  in  my  features,  and  it  obtained 


LIFE  OF  COl^T'ER.  107 

for  me,  fi-om  his  excellent,  accomplished  neighbours,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Courteney,  the  most  delicate  and  endearing  attention  ;  kind- 
ness so  peculiarly  consoling,  that  I  can  never  cease  to  i-emember, 
and  to  speak  of  it  with  gratitude,  while  the  faculty  of  memory  re- 
mains to  me. 

Indeed,  as  my  own  health  had  been  much  shattered  by  a  series 
of  troubles,  it  would  probal^ly  have  sunk  utterly  under  the  pres- 
sure of  this  distressing  scene,  had  not  some  comforts  of  a  very 
soothing  nature  been  providentially  blended  with  the  calamities 
of  my  friend. 

It  was  on  the  twenty -third  of  April,  1794,  in  one  of  those  me- 
lancholy mornings  when  his  compassionate  relation.  Lady  Hes- 
keth,  and  myself,  were  watching  together  over  this  dejected  suf- 
ferer, that  a  letter  from  Lord  Spencer  arrived  at  Weston,  to  an- 
nounce the  intended  grant  of  such  a  pension  from  his  Majesty  to 
Cowper,  as  would  ensure  an  honourable  comyictence  for  the  resi- 
due of  his  life.  This  intelligence  produced  in  the  friends  of  the 
poet  very  lively  emotions  of  delight,  yet  blended  with  pain  almost 
as  powerful ;  for  it  was  painful,  in  no  trifling  degree,  to  reflect, 
that  these  desirable  smiles  of  good  fortune  could  not  impart  even 
a  faint  glimmering  of  joy  to  the  dejected  invalid. 

His  friends,  however,  had  the  animating  hope,  that  a  day 
would  arrive  when  they  might  see  him  recei\'e,  with  a  cheerful 
and  joyful  gratitude,  this  royal  rccompence  for  merit  universally 
acknowledged.  They  knew  that,  when  he  recovered  his  suspended 
faculties,  he  mtist  be  particulai'ly  pleased  to  find  himself  chiefly 
indebted  for  his  good  fortune  to  the  active  benevolence  of  that 
nobleman  who,  though  not  personally  acquainted  with  Cowper, 
stood,  of  all  his  noble  friends,  the  highest  in  his  esteem. 

Indeed,  it  is  a  justice  due  to  the  great  to  declare,  that  many  of 
them  concurred  in  promoting,  on  this  occasion,  the  interest  of  the 
poet ;  and  they  spoke  of  him  with  a  ti'uth,  and  liberality  of  praise, 
that  did  honour  both  to  him  and  to  themselves.  It  is  not  often  that 
Majesty  has  opportunities  of  granting  a  reward  for  literary  merit, 
where  the  individual  who  receives  it  has  so  clear  and  unques- 
tionable a  title,  both  to  royal  munificence  and  to  popular  affection. 
But  the  heart  and  spirit  of  Cowper  were  eminently  loyal  and  pa- 
triotic. He  has  spoken  occasionally  of  his  sovereign  in  verse,  with 
personal  regard,  but  without  a  shadow  of  ser\ility :  and  his  poetry 
abounds  with  eloquent  and  just  descriptions  of  that  double  duty 
which  an  Englishman  owes  to  the  crown  and  to  the  people. 

Perhaps  no  poet  has  more  clearly  and  forcibly  delineated  the 
respective  duties  that  belong  both  to  subjects  and  to  sovereigns: 
T  allude  to  an  admirable  passage  on  this  topic  in  the  fifth  book  of 


108^  LIFE  OF  COWPER,' 

the  Task.   It  is  thne  to  feturn  to  the  sufferer  at  Weston.  '  He  wa». 
unhappily  disabled  from  feeling  the  favour  he  received,  but  an  an-.  ' 
iiuityof  three  hundred  a  year  was  graciously  secured  to  him,  and. 
rendered  payable  to  his  friend  Mr.  Rose,  as  the  trustee  of  Co\vper. 

After  devoting  a  few  weeks  to  Weston,  I  was  under  a  painful 
necessity  of  forcing  myself  away  from  my  unhappy  friend,  who, 
though  he  appeared  to  take  no  pleasure  in  my  society,  expressed 
estreme  reluctance  to  let  me  depart.  I  hardly  ever  endured  an 
hour  more  dreadfully  distressing  than  the  hour  in  which  I  left 
him.  Yet  the  anguish  of  it  would  have  been  greatly  increased, 
had  I  been  conscious  that  he  was  destined  to  years  of  this  dark  de- 
pression, and  that  I  should  see  him  no  more.  I  still  hoped,  from 
the  native  vigour  of  his  frame,  that,  as  he  had  formerly  struggled 
tlirough  longer  fits  of  this  oppressive  malady,  his  darkened  mind 
would  yet  emerge  from  this  calamitous  eclipse,  and  shine  forth 
again  with  new  lustre.  These  hopes  were  considerably  increased 
at  a  subsequent  period ;  but,  alas  I  they  were  delusive :  for,  al- 
though he  recovered  sufficient  command  of  his  faculties  to  write  a 
few  occasional  poems,  and  to  retouch  his  Homer,  yet  the  prospect* 
of  his  perfect  recovery  was  never  realized.  I  had  beheld  the  poet 
of  unrivalled  genius,  the  sympathetic  friend,  and  the  delightful  com- 
panion, for  the  last  time ;  and  I  must  now  relate  the  gloomy  resi- 
due of  his  life,  not  from  my  own  personal  observation,  but  from 
the  faithful  account  of  his  young  kinsman  of  Norfolk,  who  devoted 
himself  to  the  care  of  this  beloved  sufferer,  and  persevered  to  the 
last  in  that  delicate  and  awfiil  charge. 

From  this  time,  when  I  left  my  unhappy  friend  at  \^"eston,  in 
the  spring  of  the  year  1794,  he  remained  there,  under  the  tender 
vigilance  of  his  affectionate  relation.  Lady  Hesketh,  till  the  latter 
end  of  July,  1795 ;  a  long  season  of  the  darkest  depression,  in 
which  the  best  medical  advice,  and  the  influence  of  time,  appeared 
equally  unable  to  lighten  that  afflictive  burthen  which  pressed  in- 
cessantly on  his  spirits. 

At  this  period  it  became  absolutely  necessary  to  make  a  great 
and  painful  exertion,  for  the  mental  relief  of  the  various  sufferers 
at  Weston.  Mrs.  Unwin  was  sinking  very  fast  into  second  child- 
hood ;  the  health  of  Lady  Hesketh  was  much  impaired ;  and  tlie 
dejection  of  Co\vper  was  so  severe,  that  a  change  of  scene  was 
considered  as  essential  to  the  prcsei'vation  of  his  life. 

Under  circumstances  so  deplorable,  his  kinsman  at  Norfolk 
most  tenderly  and  generously  undertook  to  conduct  the  two  vene-r 
rable  invalids  from  Buckinghamshire  into  Norfolk,  and  so  to  re- 
gulate their  future  lives,  that  every  possible  expedient  might  be 
tried  for  the  recovery  of  his  revered  relation. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  IW 

It  is  harclly  possible  for  friendship  to  undertake  a  charge  more 
delicate  and  arduous,  or  to  sustain  all  the  pains  tliat  must  neces- 
sarily attend  it,  Avith  a  more  constant  exertion  of  gentle  fortitude 
and  affectionate  fidelity. 

The  local  attachment  of  Cowper  to  his  favourite  village  of 
Weston  was  strong  in  no  common  degree,  and  rendered  his  mi- 
gration from  it,  though  an  event  of  medical  necessity,  yet  a  scene 
of  peculiar  sufferings!  Those  who  knew  his  passionate  attachment 
to  that  pleasant  village,  how  deeply  he  lamented  his  absence  from 
it,  and  how  little  he  gained  by  a  change  of  situation,  tliough  con- 
sidered as  important  to  the  revival  of  his  health,  can  hard'y  help 
regretting  that  he  did  not  close  his  days  in  that  favourite  scene, 
and  find,  at  last,  according  to  the  wish  that  he  tenderly  expresses 
in  the  conclusion  of  the  Task, 

"  A  safe  retreat 
"  Beneath  the  turf  that  he  had  often  trod." 

But  painful  and  unprofitable  as  it  proved  in  a  medical  point  of 
view,  his  removal  from  Weston  was  very  properly  considered,  by 
his  relations,  as  an  act  of  imperious  duty.  He  quitted  it  with  af- 
fectionate reluctance  ;  and  perhaps  I  cannot  more  forcibly  express 
both  the  reg'ird  of  Cowper,  and  my  own  regard  for  tliat  endearing 
scene,  than  by  introducing,  at  this  time,  when  we  are  taking  leave 
of  V\'eston  for  ever,  a  little  poem,  that  I  believe  to  be  tlie  last 
original  work  which  he  produced  in  that  beloved  abode.  The 
poem  describes  not  his  residence,  but  the  increasing  infirmities 
of  that  aged  companion  who  had  so  long  contributed  to  his  do- 
iTiestic  comfort.  I  question  if  any  language  on  earth  can  exhibit 
a  specimen  of  verse  more  exquisitely  tender. 


To  MARY. 

The  twentieth  year  is  well-nigh  past. 
Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast — 
Ah,  would  that  this  might  be  the  last. 

My  Mary ! 

Thy  spirits  have  a  fainter  flow, 
I  see  thee  daily  weaker  grow — 
'Twas  my  distress  that  brought  thee  low, 

Mv  Marv  ! 


110  LIFE  OF  COWPER* 

Thy  needles,  once  a  shining  store, 
Foi'  my  sake  restless  heretofore, 
Now  rust  disus'd,  and  shine  no  more, 

My  Mary ! 

For  though  thou  gladly  would'st  fulfil 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still, 
Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will,' 

My  Mary ! 

But  well  thou  playd'st  the  housewife's  part ; 
And  all  thy  threads,  with  magic  art, 
Have  wound  themselves  about  this  heart, 

My  Mary ! 

Thy  indistinct  expi*essions  seem 
Like  language  utter'd  in  a  dream ; 
Yet  me  they  charm,  whate'er  the  theme. 

My  Mary ! 

Thy  silver  locks,  once  auburn  bright. 
Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 
Than  golden  beams  of  orient  light. 

My  Mary ! 

For  cculd  I  view  nor  them  nor  thee. 
What  sight  worth  seeing  could  I  see  ? 
The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me. 

My  Mary ! 

Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline. 
Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign  ; 
Yet,  gently  press'd,  press  gently  mine, 

My  Mary! 

■♦ 

Such  feebleness  of  limbs  thou  prov'st. 
That  now,  at  every  step  thou  mov'st 
Upheld  by  two,  yet  still  thou  lov'st. 

My  Mary! 

And  still  to  love,  though  prest  with  ill; 
In  wint'ry  age  to  feel  no  chill, 
Vv'ith  me,  is  to  be  lovely  still. 

My  Mary ! 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  lU 

But  ah !  by  constant  heed  I  know 
How  oft  the  sadness  that  I  show 
Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  woe, 

My  Mary ! 

And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast 
With  much  resemblance  of  the  past, 
Tliy  worn-out  heart  will  break  at  last, 

My  Mary » 


On  Tuesday  the  twenty-eighth  of  July,  1795,  Cowper  and  Mrs. 
Unwin  removed,  under  the  care  and  guidance  of  Mr.  Jolinson, 
from  Weston  to  North-Tuddenham,  in  Norfolk,  by  a  journey  of 
three  days,  passing  through  Cambridge  without  stopping  there. 
In  the  evening  of  the  first  day  they  rested  at  the  village  of  Eaton, 
near  St.  Neot's.  Cowper  walked,  with  his  young  kinsman,  in  the 
church-yard,  by  moon-light,  and  spoke  of  the  poet  Thomson  with 
more  composure  of  mind  than  he  liad  discovered  for  many  months. 

This  conversation  was  almost  his  last  glimm,ering  of  cheer- 
fulness. 

At  North-Tuddenham  the  travellers  were  accommodated  with 
a  commodious,  untenanted  parsonage-house,  by  the  kindness  of  the 
Reverend  Leonard  Shelford.  Here  they  resided  till  the  nineteenth 
of  August.  It  was  the  considerate  intention  of  Mr.  Johnson  not  to 
remove  the  two  invalids  immediately  to  his  own  house  in  the  town 
of  East-Dereham,  lest  die  situation,  in  a  market-place,  should  be 
distressing  to  the  tender  spirit-s  of  Cowper. 

In  their  new  tempoi-ary  residence  they  were  received  by  Miss 
Johnson  and  Miss  Perowne :  and  here  I  am  irresistibly  led  to  re- 
mark the  kindness  of  Providence  towards  Cowper,  in  his  darkest 
seasons  of  calamity,  by  suppljing  him  with  attendants  peculiarly 
suited  to  the  exigences  of  mental  dejection. 

Miss  Perowne  is  one  of  those  excellent  beings  whom  nature 
seems  to  have  formed  expressly  for  the  purpose  of  alleviating  the 
sufferings  of  the  afflicted :  tenderly  vigilant  in  providing  Ibr  the 
wants  of  sickneps,  and  resolutely  firm  in  administering  such  relief 
as  the  most  intelligent  compassion  can  supply.  Cowper  speedily 
observed  and  felt  the  invaluable  virtues  of  his  new  attendant;  and, 
during  the  last  years  of  liis  life,  he  honoured  her  so  far  as  to  prefer 
her  personal  assistance  to  that  of  every  individual  around  hi'm. 

Severe  as  his  depressive  malady  appeared  at  this  period,  he  was 
still  able  to  bear  considerable  exercise ;  and  before  he  left  Tudden- 
ham,  he  walked,  with  Mr.  Johnson,  to  the  neighboui'ing  village  of 


112  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

Mattishall,  on  a  visit  to  his  cousin,  Mrs.  Bodham.  On  survey- 
ing his  own  portrait  by  Abbot,  in  the  house  of  that  lady,  he  clasped 
his  hands  in  a  paroxysm  of  pain,  and  uttered  a  vehement  wish, 
that  his  present  sensations  miglit  be  such  as  they  were  when  that 
picture  was  painted.  In  August,  1795,  Mr.  Johnson  conducted  his 
two  invalids  to  Mundsley,  a  village  on  the  Norfolk  coast,  in  the 
hope  that  a  situation  by  the  sea-side  might  prove  salutary  and 
amusing  to  Cowper.  They  continued  to  reside  there  till  October, 
but  without  any  apparent  benefit  to  the  health  of  the  interesting 
sufferer. 

He  had  long  relinquished  epistolary  intercourse  with  his  most  in- 
timate friends,  bat  his  tender  solicitude  to  hear  some  tidings  of  liis 
favourite  Weston  induced  him,  in  September,  to  write  a  letter  to 
Mr.  Buchanan.  It  shows  the  severity  of  his  depression,  but  shows, 
also,  that  faint  gleams  of  pleasure  could  occasionally  break  through 
the  settled  darkness  of  melancholy. 

He  begins  with  a  poetical  quotatiori : 

'  To  interpose  a  little  ease, 
'  Let  my  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise!' 

"  I  will  forget,  for  a  moment,  that  to  whomsoever  I  may  ad- 
dress myself,  a  letter  from  me  can  no  otherwise  be  welcome  than 
as  a  curiosity.  To  you,  Sir,  I  address  this,  urged  to  it  by  ex- 
treme penury  of  employment,  and  the  desire  I  feel  to  learn 
something  of  Avhat  is  doing,  and  has  been  done,  at  Weston  (my 
beloved  Westcn  1)  since  I  left  it. 

"  The  coldness  of  these  blasts,  even  in  the  hottest  days,  has 
been  such,  that,  added  to  the  irritation  of  the  salt-spray  with 
which  they  are  always  charged,  they  have  occasioned  me  an  in- 
flammation in  the  eye-lids,  which  thi'eatened,  a  few  days  since, 
fo  confine  me  entirely;  but,  by  absenting  myself  as  much  as  possi- 
ble from  the  beach,  and  guarding  my  face  with  an  umbrella,  that 
inconvenience  is,  in  some  degree,  abated.  My  chamber  commands 
a  very  near  view  of  the  ocean,  and  the  ships  at  high  water  ap- 
proach the  coast  so  closely,  that  a  man,  furnished  with  better 
eyes  than  mine,  might,  I  doubt  not,  discern  the  sailoi-s  from  the 
window.  No  situation,  at  least  when  the  weather  is  clear  and 
bright,  can  be  pleasanter ;  which  you  will  easily  credit,  when  I 
add,  that  It  imparts  something  a  little  resembling  pleasure  even  to 

me. Gratif''  me  v.'iih  nevvs  of  Weston  ! If  Mr.  Gregson 

find  your  neighbours,  the  Ccurtencys,  are  there,  mention  me  to 
them  in  such  terras  as  you  sec  good.  Tell  me  if  my  poor  birds 
are  living  !     I  never  see  the  herbs  I  used  to  give  them  without 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  113 

A  recollection  of  them,  and  sometimes  am  ready  to  gather  them, 
ibrgetting  that  I  am  not  at  home. — Pardon  this  intrusion  1 

"  Mrs.  UnAvin  continues  much  as  usual. 
«  Mtmdsley,  Scjit,  5,  1795." 


The  compassionate  and  accomplished  clergyman  to  whom  this 
letter  is  addressed,  endeavoured,  with  great  tenderness  and  in- 
genuity, to  allure  his  dejected  friend  to  prolong  a  correspondence 
that  seemed  to  promise  some  little  alleviation  to  his  melancholy  : 
but  that  cruel  distemper  baffled  all  the  various  expedients  that 
could  be  devised  to  counteract  its  overwhelming  influence. 

Much  hope  was  entertained  from  air  and  exercise,  with  a  fre- 
quent change  of  scene. — In  September  Mr.  Johnson  conducted  his 
kinsman  (to  the  promotion  of  whose  recovery  he  devoted  all  the 
faculties  of  his  affectionate  spirit)  to  take  a  survey  of  Dunham- 
Lodge,  a  seat  that  happened  to  be  vacant:  it  is  seated  on  a  high 
grovuid,  in  a  park,  about  four  miles  from  Swaffham.  Cowper 
spoke  of  it  as  a  house  rather  too  spacious  for  him,  yet  such  as  he 
was  not  unwilling  to  inhal^it ;  a  remark  that  induced  Mr.  John- 
son, at  a  subsequent  period,  to  become  the  tenant  of  this  mansion, 
as  a  scene  more  eligible  for  Cowper  than  the  town  of  Dereham. 
This  town  they  also  surveyed  in  their  excursion ;  and,  after  pas- 
sing a  night  there,  returned  to  Mundsley,  which  they  quitted  for 
the  season  on  the  seventh  of  October. 

They  removed  immediately  to  Dereham ;  but  left  it  in  the  course 
of  the  month  for  Dunham-Lodge,  which  now  became  their  settled 
residence. 

The  spirits  of  Cowper  were  not  sufficiently  revived  to  allow 
him  to  resume  either  his  pen  or  his  books ;  but  the  kindness  of  his 
young  kinsman  continued  to  furnish  him  with  inexhaustible  amuse- 
ment, by  reading  to  him,  almost  incessantly,  a  series  of  novels, 
which,  although  tlie\'  did  not  lead  him  to  converse  on  what  he 
heard,  yet  failed  not  to  rivet  his  attention,  and  so  to  prevent  his 
afflicted  mind  from  preying  on  itself. 

In  April,  1796,  the  good,  infirm  old  lady,  whose  infirmities  con- 
tinued to  engage  the  tender  attention  of  Cowper,  even  in  his 
darkest  periods  of  depression,  received  a  visit  from  her  daughter 
and  son-in-law,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Powley.  On  their  departure,  Mr. 
Jf)hnson  assumed  the  office  wjiich  Mrs.  Powley  had  tenderly  per- 
formed for  her  venerable  parent,  and  regularly  read  a  chapter  in 
the  Bible  ev^ery  morning  to  Mrs.  Unwin  before  she  rose.  It  was 
the  invariable  custom  of  Cowper  to  visit  his  poor  old  friend  the 

VOL.  II.  Q_ 


114  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

moment  he  had  finished  his  breakfast,  and  to  remain  in  her  apart- 
ment while  the  chapter  was  read. 

In  June  the  pressure  of  his  melancholy  appeared  to  be  in  some 
little  degree  alleviated,  for  on  Mr.  Johnson's  receiving  the  edition 
of  Pope's  Homer,  published  by  Mr.  Wakefield,  Cowper  eagerly 
seized  the  book,  and  began  to  read  the  notes  to  himself  with  visi'oie 
interest.  They  awakened  his  attention  to  his  own  version  of  Ho- 
mer. In  August  he  deliberately  engaged  in  a  revisal  of  the  whole, 
and  for  some  time  produced  almost  sixty  new  lines  a  day. 

This  mental  occupation  animated  all  his  intimate  friends  with 
a  most  lively  hope  of  his  speedy  and  perfect  recovery.  But  autumi> 
repressed  the  hope  that  summer  had  excited. 

In  September  the  family  removed  from  Dunham-Lodge  to  try 
again  the  influence  of  the  sea-side,  in  their  favourite  village  af 
Mundsley. 

Cowper  walked  frequently  by  the  sea ;  but  no  apparent  benefit 
arose,  no  mild  relief  from  the  incessant  pressure  of  his  melan- 
choly. He  had  relinquished  his  Homer  again,  and  could  not  yet 
be  induced  to  resume  it. 

Towards  the  end  of  October,  this  interesting  family  of  disabled 
invalids,  and  their  affectionate  attendants,  retired  from  the  coast 
to  the  house  of  Mr.  Johnson,  in  Dereham  ;  a  house  now  chosen  for 
their  winter  residence,  as  Dunham-Lodge  appeared  to  them  too 
dreary. 

The  long  and  exemplary  life  of  Mrs.  Unwin  was  drawing  to- 
wards a  close : — Tlie  powers  of  nature  were  gradually  exhausted, 
and  on  the  se\'enteenth  of  December  she  ended  a  troubled  ex- 
istence, distinguished  by  a  sublime  spirit  of  piety  and  friendship, 
that  shone  through  long  periods  of  calamity,  and  continued  to  glim- 
mer through  the  distressful  twilight  of  her  declining  faculties.  Her 
death  was  uncommonly  tranquil.  Cowper  saw  her  about  half  an 
hour  before  the  moment  of  expiration,  which  passed,  without  a 
struggle  or  a  groan,  as  the  clock  was  striking  one  in  the  after- 
noon. 

Oji  the  morning  of  that  day  he  said  to  the  servant,  who  opened 
the  window  of  his  chamber,  "  Sally,  is  there  life  above  stairs  ?" 
A  sti'iking  proof  of  his  bestowing  incessant  attention  on  the  suffer- 
ings of  his  aged  friend,  although  he  had  long  appeared  almost  to- 
tally absorbed  in  his  own. 

In  the  dusk  of  the  evening  he  attended  Mr.  Johnson  to  survey 
the  corpse ;  and  after  looking  at  it  a  few  moments,  he  started  sud- 
denly away,  with  a  vehement  but  unfinished  sentence  of  passionate: 
sorrow. 

He  spoke  of  her  no  more. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  315 

She  was  buried  by  torch-'ight,  on  the  twenty-third  of  Decem- 
ber, in  the  north  aisle  of  Derch;im  chu-ch ;  and  two  of  her  friends, 
impressed  witli  a  just  and  deep  sense  of  her  extraordinary  merit, 
have  raised  a  mai'ble  tablet  to  her  memory,  wkli  the  following  in. 
scription: 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
MARY, 

(Widow  of  the  Reverend  Morley  Unwin, 

and  Mother  of  the  Reverend  William  Ca  wthorn  Unwin,) 

Born  at  Ely,  1724 — buried  in  this  Church,  1796. 

Trusting  in  God,  with  all  her  heart  and  mind, 

This  woman  prov'd  magnanimously  kind; 

Endur'd  affliction's  desolating  hail. 

And  watch'd  a  poet  through  misfortime's  vale. 

Her  spotless  dust,  ar,ge1ic  guards,  defend! 

It  is  the  dust  of  Unwin,  Cowper's  friend  \ 

That  single  title  in  itself  is  fame. 

For  all  who  read  his  verse  revere  her  name. 


The  infinitely  tender  and  deep  sense  of  gratitude  that  Cowper, 
in  his  seasons  of  health,  invariably  manifested  towards  this  zealous 
and  faithful  guardian  of  his  troubled  existence;  the  agonies  he 
suffered  on  our  finding  her  under  the  oppression  of  a  paralytic 
disease,  dm-ing  my  first  visit  to  Weston;  and  all  his  expi-essions 
to  me  concerning  the  comfort  and  support  that  his  spirits  had 
derived  from  her  friendship, — all  made  me  peculiarly  anxious  to 
know  how  he  sustained  the  event  of  her  death.  It  may  be  re- 
garded as  an  instance  of  providential  mercy  to  this  afflicted  poet, 
whose  sensibility  of  heart  was  so  wonderfully  acute,  that  his  aged 
friend,  whose  li*e  he  had  so  long  considered  as  essential  to  his  own, 
was  taken  from  him  at  a  time  when  the  pressure  of  his  malady,  a 
perpetual  low  fever,  both  of  body  and  mind,  had,  in  a  great  degree, 
diminished  the  native  energy  of  his  faculties  and  affections. 

Severe  as  the  sufferings  of  melanchoiy  were  to  his  disordered 
frame,  I  am  strongly  inclined  to  believe  that  the  anguish  of  heart 
"which  he  would  otherwise  have  endured,  must  have  been  infinitely 
more  icvere.  From  this  anguish  he  was  so  far  preserved  by  the 
marvellous  state  of  his  own  disturl^ed  health,  that,  instead  of 
mourning  the  loss  of  a  person  in  wliose  life  he  had  seemed  to  live, 
all  perceptioi)  of  that  loss  was  mercifully  taken  from  him;  and 


lift-  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

from  the  moment  when  he  hurried  away  from  the  inanimate  object 
of  his  filial  attachment,  he  appeared  to  have  no  memory  of  her 
having  existed,  for  he  never  asked  a  question  concerning  her  fune- 
ral, nor  ever  mentioned  her  name. 

Towards  the  summer  of  1797,  his  bodily  health  appeared  to  im-r 
prove,  but  not  to  such  a  degree  as  to  restore  any  comfortable  acti- 
vity to  his  mind.  In  June  he  wrote  to  me  a  brief  ;ettei',  but  such 
as  too  forcibly  expressed  the  cruelty  of  his  distemper. 

The  process  of  digestion  never  passed  regularly  in  his  frame 
during  the  years  that  he  resided  in  Norfolk.  Medicine  appeared 
to  have  little  or  no  influence  on  his  complaint,  and  his  aversion  at 
the  sight  of  it  was  extreme. 

From  Asses'  milk,  of  which  he  began  a  course  on  the  twenty- 
first  of  June  in  this  year,  he  gained  a  considerable  acquisition  of 
bodily  strength,  and  was  enabled  to  bear  an  airing  in  an  open  car- 
riage before  breakfast,  with  Mr.  Johnson. 

A  depression  of  spirits,  which  suspended  the  studies  of  a  writer 
so  eminently  endeared  to  the  public,  was  considered,  by  men  of 
piety  and  learning,  as  a  national  misfortune  ;  and  several  indivi- 
duals of  this  description,  though  personally  unknown  to  Cowper, 
■wrote  to  him  in  the  benevolent  hope,  that  expressions  of  friendly 
praise,  from  persons  who  could  be  influenced  only  by  the  most 
laudable  motives  in  bestowing  it,  might  reanimate  the  dejected 
spirit  of  a  poet,  not  sufficiently  conscious  of  the  public  service  that 
his  writings  had  rendered  to  his  countiy,  and  of  that  universa,! 
esteem  which  they  had  so  deservedly  secured  to  their  author, 

I  cannot  think  m^^self  authorized  to  mention  the  names  of  all 
who  did  honour  to  Cowper  and  to  themselves  on  this  occasion,  but 
I  trust  the  Bishop  of  LandafF  will  forgive  me,  if  my  sentiments  of 
personal  regard  towards  him  induce  me  to  take  an  affectionate 
liberty  with  his  name,  and  to  gratify  myself  by  recording,  in  these 
pages,  a  very  pleasing  example  of  his  liberal  attention  to  the  in- 
terests of  humanity. 

He  endeavoured  evangelically  to  cheer  and  invigorate  the  mind 
of  Cowper ;  but  the  depi-ession  of  that  disordered  mind  was  the 
effect  of  bodily  disorder  so  obstinate,  that  it  received  not  the 
slightest  relief  from  what,  in  a  season  of  coi-poreal  health,  would 
have  afforded  the  most  animated  gratification  to  this  interesting 
inA^alid. 

The  pressure  of  his  malady  had  now  made  him  utterly  deaf  t© 
the  most  honourable  praise. 

He  had  long  discontinued  the  revisal  of  his  Homer  ;  but,  b}"^  the 
entreaty  of  his  young  kinsman,  he  was  persuaded  to  resume  it  in 
September,  1797,  and  he  pei-severed  in  it,  oppressed  as  he  was 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  11? 

by  indisposition,  till  Maixh,  1799.  On  Friday  evening,  the  eighth 
of  that  month,  he  completed  his  revisal  of  the  Odyssey,  and  the 
next  morning  wrote  part  of  a  new  pi-eface. 

To  watch  over  the  disordered  health  of  afflicted  genius,  and  to 
lead  a  powerful  but  oppressed  spirit,  by  gentle  encouragement, 
to  exert  itself  in  salutary  occupation,  is  an  office  that  requires  a 
very  rare  union  of  tenderness,  intelligence  and  fortitude.  To  con- 
template and  minister  to  a  great  mind,  in  a  state  that  borders  on 
mental  desolation,  is  like  surveying,  in  the  midst  of  a  desert,  the 
tottering  ruins  of  palaces  and  temples,  where  the  faculties  of  the  • 
spectator  are  almost  absorbed  in  wonder  and  regret,  and  whei-e 
every  step  is  taken  with  awful  apprehension. 

It  seemed  as  if  Providence  had  expressly  formed  the  young 
kinsman  of  Cowper  to  prove  exactly  such  a  guardian  to  his  de- 
clining years  as  the  peculiar  exigences  of  his  situation  required. 
I  never  saw  the  human  being  that  cnuld,  I  think,  have  sustained 
the  delicate  and  arduous  office  (in  which  the  inexhaustible  virtues 
of  Mr.  Johnson  persevered  to  the  last)  through  a  period  so  long, 
"with  an  equal  portion  of  unvaried  tenderness  and  unshaken  fide- 
lity. A  man  who  wanted  sensibility  would  have  renounced  the 
duty ;  and  a  man  endowed  with  a  particle  too  much  of  that  valu- 
able, though  perilous  quality,  must  have  felt  his  own  health  ut- 
terly undermined  by  an  excess  of  sympathy  with  the  sufferings  per- 
petually in  his  sight.  Mr.  Johnson  has  completely  discharged  per- 
}iaj»s  the  most  trying  of  human  duties;  and,  I  trust,  he  will  forgive 
iTie  for  this  public  declaration,  that,  in  his  mode  of  discharging  it, 
lie  has  merited  the  most  cordial  esteem  from  all  who  love  the 
memory  of  Cowper.  Even  a  stranger  may  consider  it  as  a  strik- 
ing proof  of  his  tender  dexterity  in  soothing  and  guiding  the  af- 
flicted poet,  that  he  was  able  to  engage  him  steadily  to  pursue  and 
finish  the  revisal  and  correction  of  his  Homer,  during  a  long  pe- 
riod of  bodily  and  mental  sufferings,  when  his  troubled  mind  re- 
coiled from  all  intercourse  with  his  most  intimate  friends,  and  la- 
boured under  a  morbid  abliorrence  of  all  cheerful  exertion. 

But  in  deploring  the  calamity  of  my  friend,  and  describing  the 
merit  of  his  affectionate  attendant,  I  must  not  forget  that  it  is  still 
incumbent  on  me,  as  a  faithful  biographer,  to  notice  a  few  circum- 
stances in  the  dark  and  distressful  years  that  Cowper  had  yet  to 
ling-er  on  earth.  In  the  summer  of  1798,  Mr.  Johnson  was  induced 
to  vary  his  plan  of  remaining,  for  some  months,  in  the  marine 
village  of  Muiulsley,  and  thought  it  more  eligible  fvir  the  invalid 
to  make  frequent  visits  from  Dereham  to  tlie  coast,  passing  a  week 
^t  a  time  by  the  sea-side. 

Cowper,  in  his  Poem  on  Retirement,  seems  to  inform  us  what 


hs  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

his  own  sentiments  were,  in  a  season  of  health,  concerning  the 
regimen  most  proper  for  the  disease  of  melancholy. 

"  Virtuous  and  faithful  Heberden,  whose  skill 
"  Attempts  no  task  it  cannot  well  fulfil, 
"  Gives  melancholy  up  to  nature's  care, 
*'  And  sends  the  patient  inco  purer  air." 

Tlie  frequent  change  of  place,  and  the  magnificence  of  marine 
scenery,  produced,  at  times,  a  little  relief  to  his  depressive  sensa- 
tions. On  the  seventh  of  June,  1798,  he  surveyed  the  Light-house 
at  Happisburgh,  and  expressed  some  pleasure  on  beholding,  through 
a  telescope,  several  ships  at  a  distance.  Yet,  in  his  usual  walk  with 
Mr.  Johnson,  by  the  sea-side,  he  exemplified  but  too  forcibly  his 
own  affecting  description  of  melancholy  silence. 

"  That  silent  tongue 
*•  Cnuld  give  advice,  could  censure,  or  commend, 
"  Or  charm  the  sorrov\'s  of  a  drooping  friend ; 
*'  Rencunc'd  alike  its  office,  and  its  sport, 
"  Its  brisker  and  its  graver  strains  fall  short : 
"  Both  fai'  beneath  a  fever's  secret  sway, 
"  And,  like  a  summer  brook,  are  past  away." 

But  this  description  is  applicable  only  in  the  moi*e  oppressive  pre- 
ceding years,  for  of  the  summer  1798,  Mr.  Johnson  says,  "  We 
had  no  longer  air  and  exercise  alone,  but  exercise  and  Homer 
hand  in  hand." 

On  the  twenty-fourtli  of  July  Cowper  had  the  honour  of  a  visit 
from  a  lady  for  whom  he  had  long  entertained  affectionate  respect, 
the  Dowager  Lady  Spencer  ;  and  it  was  rather  remarkable,  that, 
on  the  very  morning  she  called  upon  him,  he  happened  to  have  be- 
gun his  revisal  of  the  Odyssey,  which  he  had  originally  inscribed 
to  her.  Such  an  incident,  in  an  happier  season,  would  have  pro- 
duced a  very  enlivening  effect  on  his  spirits ;  but,  in  his  present 
state,  it  had  not  even  the  power  to  lead  him  into  any  free  conversa- 
tion with  his  amiable  visitor. 

The  only  amusement  that  he  appeared  to  admit  without  reluct- 
ance, was  the  reading  of  Mr.  Johnson,  who,  indefatigable  in  the 
supply  of  such  amusement,  had  exhausted  an  immense  collection 
of  novels;  and,  at  this  period,  began  reading  to  the  poet  his  own 
works.  To  these  he  listened  also  in  silence,  and  heard  all  his 
pcems  recited  in  order,  till  the  reader  arrived  at  the  history  of 
John  Gilpin,  which  he  begged  not  to  hear.   Mr.  Johnson  proceeded 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  113 

to  his  manuscript  poems.  To  these  he  willingly  listened,  but 
made  not  a  single  remark  on  any.  In  October,  1798,  the  pressure 
of  his  melancholy  seemed  to  be  n)itigated  in  some  little  degree,  for 
he  exerted  himself  so  far  as  to  write,  without  solicitation,  to  Lady 
Hesketh  ;  and  I  insert  passages  of  this  letter,  because,  gloomy  as  it 
is,  it  describes,  in  a  most  interesting  manner,  the  sudden  attack  of 
his  maladv,  and  tends  to  confirm  an  opinion  that  his  mental  disor- 
der arose  from  a  scorbutic  habit,  which,  when  his  perspiration  was 
obstructed,  occasioned  an  unsearchable  obstruction  in  the  finer 
ports  of  his  frame.  Such  a  cause  would  produce,  I  apprehend,  an 
effect  exactly  like  what  my  suffering  friend  desci-ibes  in  this  af- 
fectuig  letter. 

Dear  Cousin, 

You  describe  delightful  scenes,  but  you 
describe  them  to  one  who,  if  he  even  saw  them,  could  receive  no 
deight  from  them ;  who  has  a  faint  recollection,  and  so  faint  as 
to  be  like  pn  almost  forgotten  dream,  that  once  he  was  susceptible 
of  plcppurc  from  such  causes.  The  country  that  you  have  had  in 
prospect  has  been  always  famed  for  its  beauties ;  but  the  wretch 
who  can  derive  no  gratification  from  a  view  of  nature,  even  under 
the  disadvantage  of  her  most  ordinary  dress,  will  have  no  eyes  to 
admire  her  in  any. 

In  one  day,  in  one  minute,  I  should  rather  have  said,  she  became 
an  universal  blank  to  me,  and  though  from  a  different  cause,  yet 
with  an  effect  as  difficult  to  remove  as  blindness  itself. 


Miwdsley,  October  13,  179S, 

On  his  return  from  Muudsley  to  Dereham,  in  an  evening  to- 
wards the  end  of  October,  Co;vper,  with  Miss  Perowne  and  Mr. 
Johnson,  was  overturned  in  a  post-chaise.  He  discovered  no  ter- 
ror on  the  occasion,  and  escaped  without  injury  from  the  accident. 

In  December  he  received  a  visit  from  his  highly  esteemed  friend 
Sir  John  Throckmorton  ;  but  his  malady  was,  at  that  time,  so  op- 
pressive that  it  rendered  him  almost  insensible  to  the  kind  solici- 
tude of  friendship. 

He  still  continued  to  exercise  the  powers  of  his  astonishing  mind. 
Upon  his  finishing  the  rcvisal  of  his  Homer,  in  March,  1799,  Mr. 
Johnson  endeavoured,  in  the  gentlest  manner,  to  lead  him  into  new 
literary  occupation. 

For  this  purpose,  on  the  eleventh  of  March,  he  had  before 
him  the  paper,  containing  the  comu:iencenient  of  his  poem  on  The 


120  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

four  Ages,  Cowper  altered  a  few  lines;  he  also  added  a  few ; 
but  soon  observed  to  his  kind  attendant,  "  that  it  was  too  great  a 
work  for  him  to  attempt  in  his  present  situation." 

At  supper,  Mr.  Johnson  suggested  to  him  several  literary  pro- 
jects, that  he  might  execue  more  easily.  He  replied,  "  that  he 
had  just  thought  of  six  Latin  verses,  and  if  he  could  compose  any- 
thing, it  must  be  in  pursuing  that  composition." 

The  next  morning  he  wrote  the  six  verses  he  had  mentioned, 
and  added  a  few  more,  entitling  the  poem,  "  Mantes  glaciates,^' 

It  proved  a  versification  of  a  circumstance  recorded  in  a  news- 
paper, which  had  been  read  to  him  a  few  Aveeks  before,  without 
his  appearing  to  notice  it.  Tins  poem  he  translated  into  English 
verse,  on  the  nineteenth  of  March,  to  oblige  Miss  Perowne.  Both 
the  original  and  the  translation  shall  appear  in  the  Appendix. 

On  the  twentieth  of  March  he  wrote  the  stanzas,  entitled,  The 
Cast-aivay^  founded  on  an  anecdote  in  Anson's  voyage,  which  his 
memory  suggested  to  him,  although  he  had  not  looked  into  the 
book  for  many  years. 

As  this  poem  is  the  last  original  production  from  thei  pen  of  Cow- 
per, I  shall  introduce  it  here,  persuaded  that  it  will  be  read  with 
an  interest  proportioned  to  the  extraordinary  pathos  of  the  subject, 
and  the  still  more  extraordinary  powers  of  the  poet,  whose  lyre 
could  sound  so  forcibly,  unsilenced  by  the  gloom  of  the  darkest  dis- 
temper, that  was  conducting  him,  by  slow  gradations,  to  the  sha- 
dow of  death. 


THE  CAST-AWAY. 

Obscurest  night  involv'd  the  sky ; 

Th'  Atalantic  billows  roar'd ; 
When  such  a  destin'd  wretch  as  I, 

Wash'd  headlong  from  on  board, 
Of  friends,  of  hope,  of  all  bereft, 
His  floating  home  for  ever  left. 

No  braver  chief  could  Albion  boast 
Than  he  with  whom  he  went, 

Nor  ever  ship  left  Albion's  coast, 
With  warmer  wishes  sent. 

He  lov'd  them  both,  but  both  in  vain. 

Nor  him  beheld,  nor  her  again. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  121 

Not  long  beneath  the  'whelming  brine, 

Expert  to  swim,  he  lay  ; 
Nor  soon  he  felt  his  strength  decline, 

Or  courage  die  away ; 
But  wag'd  with  death  a  lasting  strife, 
Supported  by  despair  of  Ufe. 

He  shouted :  nor  his  friends  had  fail'd 

To  check  the  vessel's  course, 
But  so  the  furious  blast  prevail'd, 

That,  pitiless  perforce. 
They  left  their  out-cast  mate  behind, 
And  scudded  still  before  the  wind. 

Some  succour  yet  they  could  afford  ; 

And,  such  as  storms  allow, 
The  cask,  the  coop,  the  floated  cord 

Delay'd  not  to  bestow. 
Hut  he,  they  knew,  nor  ship,  nor  shore, 
Whate'er  they  gave,  should  visit  more. 

Nor,  cruel  as  it  seem'd,  could  he 

Their  haste  himself  condenm. 
Aware  that  flight,  in  such  a  sea, 

Alone  could  rescue  them ; 
Yet  bitter  felt  it  still  to  die 
Deserted,  and  his  friends  so  nigh. 

He  long  survives,  who  lives  an  hour 

In  ocean,  self-upheld : 
And  so  long  he,  with  unspent  pov/'r. 

His  destiny  repell'd : 
And  ever  as  the  minutes  flew. 
Entreated  help,  or  cry'd — "  Adieu  1'* 

At  length,  his  transient  respite  past, 

His  comrades,  who  before 
Had  heard  his  voice  in  ev'ry  blast, 

Could  catch  the  sound  no  more. 
For  then,  by  toil  subdued,  he  drank 
The  stifling  wave,  and  then  he  sank. 


VOL.  II. 


I3g  LIFE  OF  COWPEK. 

No  poet  wept  him :  but  the  page 

Of  narrative  sincere, 
That  tells  his  name,  his  worth,  his  age, 

Is  wet  with  Anson's  tear. 
And  tears,  by  bards  or  heroes  shed, 
Alike  immortalise  the  dead. 

I  therefore  purpose  not,  or  dream, 

Descanting  on  his  fate. 
To  give  the  melancholy  theme 

A  more  enduring  date. 
But  misery  still  delights  to  trace 
Its  'semblance  in  another's  case. 

No  voice  divine  the  storm  allay'd, 
No  light  propitious  shone ; 

When,  snatch'd  from  all  effectual  aid, 
We  perish'd,  each  alone ; 

But  I  beneath  a  rougher  sea, 

And  wlrelm'd  in  deeper  gulphs  than  he. 


In  August  he  translated  this  poem  into  Latin  verse.  In  October 
he  went,  with  Miss  Perowne  and  Mr.  Johnson,  to  survey  a  larger 
house  in  Dereham,  which  he  preferred  to  their  present  residence, 
and  in  which  the  family  were  settled  in  the  following  December. 

Though  his  corporeal  strength  was  now  evidently  declining,  the 
tender  persuasion  of  Mr.  Johnson  induced  him  to  amuse  his  mind 
with  frequent  composition.  Between  August  and  December  he 
wrote  all  the  translations,  from  various  Latin  and  Greek  epigrams, 
which  the  reader  will  find  in  the  appendix. 

In  his  new  residence  he  amused  himself  with  translating  a  few 
fables  of  Gay  into  Latin  verse.  The  fable  which  he  used  to  recite 
as  a  child,  "  The  hare  and  many  friends,"  became  one  of  his 
latest  amusements. 

The  perfect  ease  and  spirit  with  which  his  translations  from 
Gay  are  written,  induce  me  to  print  not  only  those  which  he  left 
entire,  but  even  the  two  verses  (for  they  are  excellent)  with  which 
he  was  beginning  to  translate  another,  when  increasing  maladies 
obliged  him  to  relinquish  for  ever  this  elegant  occupation. 

These  Latin  fables  were  all  written  in  January,  1800.  Towards 
the  end  of  that  month  I  had  requested  him  to  new-model  a  passage 
in  his  Homer,  relathig  to  some  figures  of  Dssdalus:  on  the  thirty- 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  123 

first  of  January  I  received  from  him  his  improved  version  of  the 
lines  in  question,  written  in  a  firm  and  delicate  hand. 

The  sight  of  such  writing  frcm  my  long  silent  friend  inrpired 
Tne  with  a  lively  but  too  sanguine  hope,  that  I  might  sec  him  once 
more  restored. 

Alas !  at  this  period  a  complication  of  new  maladies  began  to 
tlu'eaten  his  inestimable  life ;  and  the  neat  transcript  of  his  improved 
verses  on  the  curious  monument  of  ancient  sculpture,  so  gracefully 
described  by  Homer,  verses  which  I  surveyed  as  a  delightful  omen 
of  future  letters  from  a  correspondent  so  inexpressibly  dear  to  me, 
proved  the  last  effort  of  his  pen. 

On  the  very  day  that  this  endearing  mark  of  his  kindness  reach- 
ed nie,  a  dropsical  appearance  in  his  legs  induced  Mr.  Johnson  to 
have  recourse  to  fresh  medical  assistance.  The  beloved  invalid 
■was,  with  great  difficulty,  persuaded  to  take  the  remedies  pre- 
scribed, and  to  try  the  exercise  of  a  post-chaise,  an  exercise  which 
he  could  not  bear  beyond  the  twenty-second  of  February. 

In  March,  when  his  decline  became  more  and  more  striking, 
he  was  visited  by  Mr.  Rose.  He  hardly  expressed  any  pleasure 
on  the  arrival  of  a  friend  whom  he  had  so  long  and  so  tenderly  re- 
garded ;  yet  he  showed  evident  signs  of  regi'et  en  his  departure, 
the  sixth  of  April. 

The  long  calamitous  illness  and  impending  death  of  a  darling 
child  precluded  me  from  sharing  with  Mr.  Rose  the  painful  gra-r 
tification  of  seeing,  once  more,  the  man  whose  genius  and  virtues 
we  had  once  contemplated  together,  with  mutual  veneration  and 
delight ;  whose  approaching  dissolution  we  felt,  not  only  as  an  irre- 
parable loss  to  ourselves,  but  as  a  national  misfortune.  On  the 
nineteenth  of  April,  the  close  of  a  life  so  wonderfully  chequered, 
and  so  universally  interesting,  appeared  to  be  very  near. 

On  Sunday,  the  twentieth,  he  seemed  a  little  revived. 

On  Monday  iie  appeared  dying,  but  recovered  so  much  as  to  eat 
a  slight  dinner. 

Tuesday  and  Wednesday  he  grew  apparently  weaker  every 
hour. 

On  Thursday  he  sat  up,  as  usual,  in  the  evening. 

Friday,  the  twenty-fifth,  at  five  in  the  morning,  a  deadly  change 
appeared  in  his  features. 

He  spoke  no  more. 

His  last  words  were  uttered  in  the  night : — In  rejecting  a  cordial, 
he  said  to  Miss  Pcrowne,  who  had  presented  it  to  him,  "  What 
can  it  signify  ?"  Yet,  even  at  this  time,  he  did  not  seem  impressed 
with  any  idea  of  dying,  although  he  conceived  tliat  nothing  would 
fcjitri'oute  to  hh  health. 


IS*  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

The  deplorable  inquietude  and  darkness  of  his  latter  years  werq 
mercifully  terminated  by  a  most  gentle  and  tranquil  dissolution. 
He  passed  through  the  awful  moments  of  death  so  mildly,  that  al- 
though five  persons  were  present,  and  observing  him,  in  his  cham- 
ber^  not  one  of  them  perceived  him  to  expire  :  but  he  had  ceased 
to  breathe  about  five  minutes  before  five  in  the  afternoon. 

On  Saturday,  the  third  of  May,  he  was  buried  in  a  part  of  Dere- 
ham church,  called  St.  Edmund's  Chapel,  and  the  funeral  was 
attended  by  several  of  his  relations. 

He  died  intestate :  his  affectionate  relation,  Lady  Hesketh,  has 
fulfilled  the  office  of  his  administratrix,  and  given  orders  for  a  mo- 
nument to  his  memory  where  his  ashes  repose.  In  the  metropo- 
lis, I  trust,  the  public  affection  for  an  author  so  eminently  deserv- 
ing, will  enable  me  to  make  his  manuscripts  relating  to  Milton, 
which  are  now  before  me,  the  means  of  erecting  a  cenotaph  in  his 
honour,  suitable  to  the  dignity  of  his  poetical  character,  and  to  the 
liberality  of  the  nation,  that  may  be  justly  proud  of  expressing  a 
parental  sense  of  his  merit. 

I  have  regarded  my  own  intimacy  with  him  as  a  blessing  to  my- 
self, and  the  remembrance  of  it  is  now  endeared  to  me  by  the  hope 
that  it  may  enable  me  to  delineate  the  man  and  the  poet  with  such 
fidelity  and  truth,  as  may  render  his  remote,  and  even  his  future 
admirers,  minutely  acquainted  with  an  exemplary  being,  most 
"Worthy  to  be  intimately  known  and  universally  beloved. 


The  person  and  mind  of  Cowper  seem  to  have  been  formed  with 
equal  kindness  by  nature ;  and  it  may  be  questioned  if  she  ever 
bestowed  on  any  man,  with  a  fonder  prodigality,  all  the  requisites 
to  conciliate  affection  and  to  inspire  respect. 

From  his  figure,  as  it  first  appeared  to  me,  in  his  sixty-second 
year,  I  should  imagine  that  he  must  have  been  very  comely  in  his 
youth ;  and  little  had  time  injured  his  countenance,  since  his  fea- 
tures expressed,  at  that  period  of  life,  all  the  powers  of  his  mind 
and  all  the  sensibility  of  his  heart. 

He  was  of  a  middle  stature,  rather  strong  than  delicate  in  the 
form  of  his  liiubs  ;  the  colour  of  his  hair  was  a  light  brown,  that  of 
his  eyes  a  bluish  gi*ey,  and  his  complexion  ruddy.  In  his  dress  he 
was  neat,  but  not  finical ;  in  Ids  diet  temperate,  and  not  dainty. 

He  had  an  air  of  pensive  reserve  in  his  deportment,  and  his  ex- 
treme shyness  sometimes  produced  in  his  manners  an  indescribable 
mixture  of  aukwardness  and  dignity  :  but  no  being  could  be  more 
truly  graceful,  when  he  was  in  perfect  health,  and  perfectly  pleased 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  121 

with  his  society.  Towai'ds  women,  in  particular,  his  behaviour 
and  conversation  were  delicate  and  fascinating  in  the  highest 
degree. 

Nature  had  given  him  a  warm  constitution ;  and  had  he  been 
prosperous  in  early  love,  it  is  probable  that  he  might  have  enjoyed 
a  moi'e  uniform  and  happy  tenor  of  health.  But  a  disappointment 
of  the  heart,  arising  from  the  cruelty  of  fortune,  threw  a  cloud  on 
his  juvenile  spirit.  Tliwarted  in  love,  the  native  fire  of  his  tempe- 
rament turned  impetuously  into  the  kindred  channel  of  devotion. 
The  smothered  flames  of  desire  uniting  with  the  vapours  of  consti- 
tutional melancholy  and  the  fervency  of  religious  zeal,  produced 
altogether  that  irregularity  of  corporeal  sensation,  and  of  mental 
health,  which  gave  such  extraordinary  vicissitudes  of  splendour 
and  of  darkness  to  his  mortal  career,  and  made  Cowper,  at  times, 
an  idol  of  the  purest  admiration,  and,  at  times,  an  object  of  the 
sincerest  pity. 

As  a  sufferer,  indeed,  no  man  could  be  more  entitled  to  compas- 
sion, for  no  man  was  ever  more  truly  compassionate  to  the  suffer- 
ings of  others.  It  was  that  rare  portion  of  benevolent  sensibility  in 
his  nature,  which  endeared  him  to  persons  of  all  ranks,  who  had 
opportunities  of  obser\  ing  him  in  private  life.  The  great  prince  of 
Conde  used  to  say,  "  No  man  is  a  hero  to  his  familiar  domestic  :" 
but  Cowper  was  really  more.  He  was  beloved  and  revered  with 
a  sort  of  idolatry  in  his  family;  not  from  any  romantic  ideas  of 
his  magical  powers  as  a  poet,  but  from  that  evangelical  gentleness 
of  manners  and  purity  of  conduct  which  illumined  the  shade  of 
his  sequestered  life. 

I  may  be  suspected  of  speaking  with  the  fond  partiality,  the  un- 
perceived  exaggerations  of  friendship ;  but  the  fear  of  such  cen- 
sure shall  not  deter  me  from  bearing  my  most  deliberate  testimony 
to  the  excellence  of  him  whose  memory  I  revere,  and  saying, 
that,  as  a  man,  he  made,  of  all  men  whom  I  have  ever  had  oppor- 
tunities to  observe  so  minutely,  the  nearest  approaches  to  moral 
perfection.  Indeed,  a  much  more  experienced  judge  of  mankind, 
and  Cowper's  associate  in  early  life,  Lord  Thurlow,  has  expressed 
the  same  idea  of  his  character;  for  being  once  i^equested  to  de- 
scribe him,  he  replied  with  that  solemn  energy  of  dignified  elocu- 
tion, by  which  he  is  accustomed  to  give  a  very  forcible  effect  to  a 
few  simple  woixls — "  Cowper  is  truly  a  good  man." 

His  daily  habits  of  study  and  exercise,  his  whole  domestic  life, 
is  so  minutely  and  agrceal)ly  delineated  in  the  series  of  liis  letters, 
that  it  is  unnecessary  for  his  biographer  to  expatiate  upon  tliem.  I 
have  little  occasion,  indeed,  to  dwell  on  this  topic;  but  let  ine  apply 
to  my  young  readers  a  few  expressive  words  of  Louis  Racine,  iu 


IM  LIFE  OF  COWPER.  I 

addressing  to  his  o^vn  son  the  Life  and  Letters  of  his  Illustrious 

father. "  Qiiand  vous  /'  aurez  connu  dans  sa  famille^  vous  /e*«- 

gouterez  viieux^  lorsque  vous  viendrez  a  le  connoitre  sur  le  Par- 
Jiasse:  vous  scaur ez,  fiourquoi  ses  vers  sont  toujours  fileins  de 
Sentimens."—~-l  might  add,  in  alluding  to  a  few  of  his  most  ten- 
der and  pathetic  letters  :  "  C'est  une  siinplicite  de  moeurs  si  ad- 
mirable dans  wi  homme  tout  sentiment^  et  tout  coeur,  qui  est  cause, 
(ju'en  copiant  pour  vous  ses  lettres,  je  verse  a  tous  momens  des 
iarmes,  parcequil  me  communique  la  tendresse,  doiit  il  etoit 
rempli,'' Cowper  greatly  resembled  his  eminent  and  exem- 
plary brothers  of  Parnassus,  Racine  and  Metastasio,  in  the  sim- 
plicity and  tenderness  of  his  domestic  character. 

His  voice  conspired  with  his  features  to  announce  to  all  who  saw 
and  heard  him,  the  extreme  sensibility  of  his  heart :  and  in  read-; 
ing  aloud  he  furnished  the  chief  delight  of  those  social,  enchant- 
ing winter  evenings,  which  he  has  described  so  happily  in  the 
fourth  book  of  the  Task.  He  had  been  taught,  by  his  parents,  at 
home,  to  recite  English  verse,  in  the  early  years  of  his  childhood; 
and  acquired  considerable  applause,  as  a  chdd,  in  the  recital  of 
Gay's  popular  fable,  "The  hare  and  many  friends : "  a  circum- 
stance that,  probably,  had  great  influence  in  raising  his  passion  for 
poetry,  and  in  giving  him  a  peculiar  fondness  for  the  wild  perse- 
cuted animal  that  he  converted  into  a  very  grateful  domestic  com- 
panion. 

Secluded  from  the  world,  as  Cowper  had  long  been,  he  yet  re- 
tained, in  advanced  life,  uncommon  talents  for  conversation ;  and 
his  conversation  was  distinguished  by  mild  and  benevolent  plea- 
santry, by  delicate  humour  peculiar  to  himself,  or  by  a  higher  tone 
of  serious  good  sense,  and  those  united  charms  of  a  cultivated 
mind,  which  he  has  himself  very  happily  described,  in  drawing 
the  colloquial  character  of  a  venerable  divine. 

Grave,  without  dullness ;  learned,  without  pride ; 

Exact,  yet  not  precise ;  though  meek,  keen-eyed ; 

Who,  when  occasion  justified  its  use. 

Had  wit,  as  bright  as  ready,  to  produce  ; 

Could  fetch  from  records  of  an  earlier  age, 

Or  from  philosophy's  enlightened  page, 

His  rich  materials,  and  regale  your  ear 

With  strains  it  was  a  privilege  to  hear : 

Yet,  above  all,  his  luxury  supreme. 

And  his  chief  glory,  was  the  gospel  theme: 

Ambitious  not  to  shine,  or  to  excel, 

But  to  treat  justly  what  he  lov'd  so  well. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  ISf 

Men  who  withdraw  themselves  from  the  ordinaiy  forms  of  society, 
"whether  delicacy  of  health,  or  a  passion  for  study,  or  both  united, 
occasion  their  retirement  from  the  world,  are  generally  obliged  to 
pav  a  heavy  tax  for  the  privacy  they  enjoy,  in  having  their  habits 
of  life  and  their  temper  very  darkly  misrepresented  by  the  igno- 
rant malice  of  offended  pride.  The  sweetness  and  purity  of  Cow- 
per's  real  character  did  not  perfectly  preserve  him  from  such  mis- 
representation. Many  persons  have  been  misled  so  far  as  to  sup- 
pose him  a  severe  and  sour  sectary,  though  gentleness  and  good 
nature  were  among  his  pre-eminent  qualities,  and  though  he  was 
deliberately  attached  to  the  established  religion  of  his  country. 
The  reader  may  recollect  a  letter  to  his  young  kinsman,  who  was 
then  on  the  point  of  taking  orders,  in  which  Cowper  sufficientlr 
proves  his  attachment  to  the  church  of  England ;  and  he  speaks 
so  decidedly  on  the  subject,  that  certainly  none  of  the  sectaries 
have  a  right  to  reckon  him  in  their  number.  He  was,  however,  as 
his  poetry  has  most  elegantly  testified,  a  most  ardent  friend  to  liberty, 
both  civil  and  religious ;  and  his  love  of  freedom  induced  him  to 
animadvert,  with  lively  indignantion,  on  every  officious  and  oppres- 
sive exercise  of  episcopal  authority.  Few  ministers  of  the  gospel 
have  searched  the  scripture  more  diligently  than  Cowper,  and,  ia 
his  days  of  health,  with  a  happier  effect ;  for  a  spirit  of  evangeli- 
cal kindness  and  purity  pervaded  the  whole  tenor  of  his  language, 
and  all  the  conduct  of  his  life. 

His  infinite  good  nature,  as  a  literary  man,  is  strikingly  dis- 
played in  the  indulgent  condescension  with  which  he  gratified  two 
successive  clei-ks  of  Northampton,  in  writing  for  them  their  annual 
copies  of  mortuary  verses.  He  thought,  like  the  amiable  Plutarch, 
that  the  most  ordinary  office  may  be  dignified  by  a  benev^olent 
spirit. 

In  describing  himself  to  his  amiable  friend,  Mr.  Park,  the  en- 
graver, he  spoke  too  slightingly  of  his  own  learning ;  for  he  was, 
in  truth,  a  scholar,  as  any  man  may  fairly  be  called  who  is  master 
of  four  languages  besides  his  own.  Cowper  read  Greek  and  La- 
tin, French  and  Italian  ;  but  the  extraordinary  incidents  of  ]ms  life 
pi-ecludcd  him  from  indulging  himself  in  a  multiplicity  of  books, 
and  his  reading  was  conformable  to  the  rule  of  Pliny,  "  Aon  77iultay 
6ed  mulfu?n," 

He  had  devoted  some  time  to  the  pencil,  and  he  mentions  his 
reason  for  quitting  it  in  the  following  passage  of  a  letter  to  the 
same  correspondent. 

JVeslori,  1792. 
It  was  only  one  year  that  I  ga\e  to  draw- 
ing, for  I  found  it  an  employment  hurtful  to  my  eyes,  which  have 


tt^  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

always  been  weak  and  subject  to  inflammation.  I  finished  my  at- 
tempts in  this  way  with  three  small  landscapes,  which  I  presented  to 
a  lady.  These  may,  perhaps,  e>dst,  but  I  have  now  no  correspond- 
ence with  the  fair  proprietor.  Except  these,  there  is  nothing  re-, 
maining  to  show  that  I  ever  aspired  to  such  an  accomplishment. 


The  native  warmth  of  Cowper's  affections  led  him  to  tal^e  a 
particular  pleasure  in  recording  the  merit  with  which  he  was  per- 
sonally acquainted :  a  remarkable  instance  of  this  amiable  disposi- 
tion appears  in  his  condescending  to  translate  the  Latin  epitaph 
en  his  school-master,  Dr.  Lloyd.  This  ephaph,  with  Cowper's 
version,  and  his  remark  upon  it,  my  reader  may  find  in  the  Ap- 
pendix :  another  epitaph  on  his  uncle,  Mr.  Ashley  Cowper,  I  shall 
insert  here,  as  it  displays,  in  a  most  pleasing  point  of  view,  both 
tlie  affectionate  ardour  and  the  modesty  of  its  author. 

LINES 

Co7n/iosedfor  a  MemoHal  of  Ashley  Cowper^  Esq.  immediatehj 
after  his  death,  by  his  JVepheiv  Willi  a  My  of  Weston, 

Farewell !  endued  with  all  that  could  engage 
All  hearts  to  love  thee,  both  in  youth  and  age ! 
In  prime  of  life,  for  sprightliness  enroU'd 
Among  the  gay,  yet  virtuous  as  the  old ; 
In  life's  last  stage  (Oh  blessing  rarely  found  J) 
Pleasant  as  jouth,  with  all  its  blossoms  crown'd  ; 
Through  every  period  of  this  changeful  state 
Unchang'd  thyself — wise,  good,  affectionate  \ 

Marble  may  flattei-,  and  lest  this  should  seem 
O'ercharg'd  with  praises  on  so  dear  a  theme, 
Although  thy  ^vorth  be  more  than  half  supprest, 
Love  shall  be  satisfied,  and  veil  the  rest. 

The  person  whom  these  verses  commemorate  was  himself  an 
elegant  poet,  and  father  of  the  lady  to  whom  so  many  of  Cowper's 
letters  are  addressed  in  the  preceding  collection.  The  reader 
can  hardly  fail  to  recollect  the  very  pathetic  manner  in  which  the 
poet  spoke  to  the  daughter  of  this  gentleman  on  the  death  of  a 
pai-ent  so  justly  beloved. 

In  describing  the  social  and  friendly  faculties  of  Cowper,  it 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  l2» 

V.'ould  be  unjust  not  to  bc-.tow  particular  notice  on  a  talent  that  he 
pot^sessed  in  peifection,  and  one  that  friendsliip  ought  especially  to 
honour,  as  she  is  indebted  to  it  for  a  considerable  portion  of  her 
most  valuable  delights :  I  mean  the  talent  of  writing  letters. 

Meimoth,  the  elegant  translator  of  Piiny's  letters,  has  observed, 
in  an  interesting  note  to  the  thirteenth  letter  of  the  second  book, 
how  highly  the  art  of  epistolary  writing  was  esteemed  by  the  Ro- 
mans, limcnting,  at  the  same  time,  that  our  country  has  not  dis- 
tinguished itself  in  this  branch  of  literature. 

My  late  occomplished  friend.  Dr.  Warton,  has  also  remarked,  in 
his  life  of  Pope,  that "  in  the  various  sorts  of  compnsitim  in  which 
the  English  have  excelled,  we  have,  perhaps,  the  least  claim  to  ex- 
cehence  in  the  article  of  letters  of  oiir  celebrated  countrymen." 

Those  of  Pope  are  generally  thought  deficient  in  that  air  of  per- 
fect ease,  that  unstudied  flow  of  affection,  which  gives  the  highest 
charm  to  e]}istolary  writing:  but  those  unaifected  graces  which  the 
delicate  critic  wished  in  vain  to  find  in  the  letters  of  Pope,  may  be 
found,  abundant  and  complete,  in  the  various  correspondence  of 
Cowper.  He  was,  indeed,  a  being  of  such  genuine  simplicity  and 
tenderness,  so  absolute  a  stranger  to  artifice  and  disguise ;  his  affec- 
tions were  so  ardent  and  so  pure,  that  in  writing  to  those  lie  loved 
he  could  not  fail  to  show  what  really  passed  in  his  own  bosonri, 
And  his  letters  are  most  faithfiil  representatives  of  his  heart.  He 
cruld  never  subscribe  to  that  dangerous  and  sophistical  dogma  of 
Dr.  Jnhnson,  in  his  splenetic  disquisition  on  the  letters  of  Pope, 
that  "  friendship  has  no  tendency  to  secure  veracity." 

It  certainly  has  such  a  tendency,  and  in  proportion  to  the  sense 
and  the  goodness  of  the  writer;  for  a  sensible,  and  a  good  man 
must  rather  wish  to  aff-rd  his  bosom  friend  the  most  accurate 
knowledge  of  his  real  character,  than  to  obtain  a  precarious  in- 
crease of  regard  by  any  sort  of  illusion.  The  great  charm  of 
confidential  epistolary  intercourse  to  such  a  man  arises  from  the 
persuasion,  that  veracity  is  not  dangerous  in  speaking  of  his  own 
defects,  when  he  is  speaking  to  a  true  and  a  considerate  friend. 

The  letters  not  intended  for  the  eye  of  the  public  have  generally 
obtained  the  greatest  share  of  popular  applause  ;  and  for  this  rea- 
son, because  such  letters  display  no  profusion  of  studied  ornaments, 
l3ut  abound  in  the  simple  and  powerful  attractions  of  nature  and 
truth. 

Letters,  indeed,  will  ever  please,  when  they  are  frank,  confiden- 
tial conversations  on  pajjer  between  persons  of  well-principled  and 
highly  cultivated  minds,  of  graceful  manners,  and  of  tender  af- 
fections. 

The  language  of  such  letters  must,  of  coui'se,  have  that  mixture 

VOL.  II.  s 


^30  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

of  ease  and  elegance  peculiarly  suited  to  such  composition,  and 
most  happily  exemplified  in  the  letters  of  Cicero  and  of  Cowper. — 
These  two  great  masters  of  a  perfect  epistolary  style  have  both 
mentioned  their  own  excellent  and  simple  rule  for  attaining  it — to 
use  only  the  language  of  familiar  conversation. 

Cowper's  opinion  of  two  English  writers,  much  admired  for 
tlie  style  of  their  letters,  is  expressed  in  the  following  extract  from 
one  of  his  own  to  Mr.  Hill. 

"  I  have  been  reading  Gray's  Works,  and  think  him  sublime. 
*  *  *  *  J  once  thought  Swift's  letters  the  best  that  could  be 
written,  but  I  like  Gray's  better.  His  humour,  or  his  wit,  or  what- 
ever it  is  to.be  called,  is  never  ill-natured  or  offensive,  and  yet,  I 
think,  equally  poignant  with  the  Dean's." 

Tlie  letters  of  Gray  are  admirable,  but  they  appear  to  me  not 
equal  to  those  of  Cowper,  either  in  the  graces  of  simplicity,  of  in 
warmth  of  affection. 

The  very  sweet  stanzas  that  Cowper  has  written  on  friendship, 
would  be  alone  sufficient  to  prove  that  his  heart  and  spirit  were 
most  tenderly  alive  to  all  the  dehcacy  and  delight  of  that  inestima- 
ble connection.  He  was  indeed  such  a  friend  himself,  as  the  voice 
of  wisdom  describes,  in  calling  a  true  friend  "  the  medicine  of 
life:"  and  though  misfortune  precluded  him,  in  his  early  days, 
from  the  enjoyment  of  connubial  love,  and  of  professional  prospe- 
rity, he  may  be  esteemed  as  singularly  happy  in  tliis  very  import- 
ant consolatory  privilege  of  human  existence ;  particularly  in  his 
friendships  with  that  finer  part  of  the  creation,  whose  sensibility 
makes  them  most  able  to  relish,  or  to  call  forth  the  powers  of  dif- 
fident genius,  and  to  alleviate  the  pressure  of  mental  affliction.  It 
may  be  questioned  if  any  poet  on  the  records  of  Parnassus  ever 
enjoyed  a  confidential  intimacy,  as  Cowper  did,  with  a  variety  of 
iaccomplished  women,  maintaining,  at  the  same  time,  consummate 
innocence  of  conduct. 

Pre-eminent  as  he  was,  in  warmth  and  vigour  of  fancy  and  af- 
fection, the  quickness  and  strength  of  his  understanding  were  pro- 
portioned to  the  more  perilous  endowments  of  his  mind.  Though 
he  had  received  from  nature  lively  appetites  and  passions,  his  rea- 
son held  them  in  the  most  steady  and  laudable  subjection. 

The  only  internal  enemy  of  his  peace  and  happiness,  that  his  in- 
tellect could  not  subdue,  was  one  tremendous  idea,  mysteriously 
impressed  on  his  fervent  imagination,  in  a  scene  of  bodily  disorder, 
and  at  such  periods  recurring  upon  his  mind  vvith  an  overwhelm- 
ing influence,  which  not  all  the  admiraljle  powers  of  his  own  inno- 
cent upright  spirit,  nor  all  the  united  aids  of  art  and  nature,  were 
able  to  counteract. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  131 

Thoiic;h  he  was  sometimes  subject  to  imaginary  fears,  he  main- 
tained, in  his  season  of  health,  a  most  magnanimous  reliance  on  the 
kindness  of  heaven.  This  sublime  sentiment  is  forcibly  and  beau- 
tifully expressed  in  the  following  passage,  extracted  from  his  cor- 
respondence with  Mr.  Hill. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  sometimes  ti'oubled  on  my  account,  but  you 
need  not.  I  have  no  doubt  it  will  be  seen,  when  my  days  are  closed, 
that  I  served  a  master  who  would  not  suffer  me  to  want  any  thing 
that  was  good  for  me.  He  said  to  Jacob,  '  I  will  surely  do  thee 
good;'  and  this  he  said  not  for  his  sake  only,  but  for  ours  also,  if 
we  trust  in  him.  This  thought  relieves  me  from  the  greatest  part 
of  the  distress  I  should  else  suffer  in  my  present  circumstances, 
and  enables  me  to  sit  down  peacefully  upon  the  wreck  of  my 
fortune." 

He  also  possessed  and  exerted  that  becoming  fortitude  which 
teaches  a  man  to  support,  under  various  trials,  the  sober  i-espect 
that  he  owes  to  himself.  Praise,  however  exalted,  did  not  intox- 
icate him,  and  detraction  was  unable  to  poison  his  pure  sense  of  his 
own  merit :  so  that  he  thus  escaped  an  infirmity  into  which  some 
great  and  good  poets  have  fallen,  an  infirmity  that  was  remarkable 
in  Racine,  and  which  I  had  once  occasion  to  observe  and  lament 
in  a  very  eminent  departed  author  of  our  own  country,  who  com- 
plained to  me  that  time  had  so  far  depressed  his  spirits  as  to  take 
from  him  all  sense  of  pleasure  in  public  praise,  and  yet  left  him 
acute  feelings  of  pain  from  public  detraction. 

Cowpcr  possessed,  in  his  original  motives  for  appearing  in  the 
character  of  a  poet,  the  best  possible  preservative  against  this 
double  infelicity  of  mind. 

His  predominant  desire  was  to  I'ender  his  poetry  an  instrument 
of  good  to  mankind :  his  love  of  fame  was  a  secondary  passion, 
and,  like  all  his  passions,  in  perfect  subjection  to  the  great  princi- 
ples of  religious  duty  which  he  made  the  rule  of  his  life. 

It  is  evident,  from  the  tenor  of  his  correspondence,  that  he  had 
a  lively  and  a  proper  relish  for  praise,  when  justly  and  affection- 
ately bestowed.  The  quickness  and  the  nicety  of  hi«  feelings,  on 
this  delicate  point,  he  has  displayed  in  the  following  letter  to  a 
lady,  whose  various  talents  he  very  higlily  esteemed,  on  receiving 
her  poem,  "  The  Emigrants  "  addressed  to  him  in  a  dedication 
most  worthy  of  such  a  patj-on. 


3SS^  LIFE  OF  COWPEft. 

To  Mrs.  CHARLOTTE  SMITH. 

Weston,  July  25,  1/93. 
My  dear  Madam, 

Many  reasons  concurred  to  make  me 
impatient  for  the  arrival  of  your  most  acceptable  present,  and 
among  them  was  the  fear  lest  you  should,  perhaps,  suspect  me  of 
tardiness  in  acknowledging  so  great  a  favour;  a  fear  that,  as  often 
as  it  prevailed,  distressed  me  exceedingly.  At  length  I  have  re- 
ceived it,  and  my  little  bookseller  assures  me  that  he  sent  it  the 
very  dav  he  got  it.  By  some  mistake,  however,  the  waggon 
brought  it  instead  of  the  coach,  which  occasioned  a  delay  that  I 
Could  ill  afford. 

It  came  this  morning,  about  an  hour  ago  :  consequently  I  h^ve 
not  had  time  to  peruse  the  poem,  though,  you  may  be  sui'e,  I  have 
found  enough  for  the  perusal  of  the  dedication.  I  have,  in  fact, 
given  it  three  readings,  and  in  each  have  found  increasing 
pleasure. 

I  ?m  a  whimsical  creature.  When  I  write  for  the  public,  I 
■write,  of  course,  with  a  desire  to  please,  in  other  words,  to  acquire 
fame,  and  I  labour  accordingly  ;  but  when  I  find  that  I  have  suc- 
ceeded, feel  myself  alarmed,  and  ready  to  shrink  from  the  acqui- 
sition. 

This  I  have  felt  more  than  once  ;  and  when  I  saw  my  name  at 
the  head  of  your  dedication,  I  felt  it  again:  but  the  consummate 
delicacy  of  your  praise  soon  convinced  me  that  I  might  spare  my 
blushes,  and  that  the  demand  was  less  upon  my  modesty  than  my 
gratitude.  Of  that  be  assured,  dear  Madam,  and  of  the  truest 
esteem  and  respect  of  your  most  obliged  and  affectionate  humble 
servant, 

Wm.  cov\ter. 

P.  5".  I  should  have  been  much  grieved  to  have  let  slip  this 
opportunity  of  thanking  ycu  for  your  charming  sennets,  and  my 
two  most  agreeable  old  friends,  Monimia  and  Orlando. 


Cowper  felt  the  full  value  of  applause  when  conferred  by  a  libe- 
ral and  a  powerful  mind ;  and  I  had  a  singularly  pleasing  opportu- 
nity of  observing  the  just  sensibility  of  his  nature  on  this  point,  by 
carrying  to  him,  in  one  of  mv  visits  to  \A'eston,  a  recent  newspa- 
per, including  the  speech  of  Mr.  Fox,  in  which  that  accomplished 
orator  had  given  new  lustre  to  a  splendid  passage  in  the  Task,  by 
reciting  it  in  parliament.     The  passage  alluded  to  contains  .the 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  133 

sublime  verses  on  the  destruction  of  the  bastile  ;  verses  that  were 
origiinilly  composed  in  the  form  of  a  prophecy.  The  eloquence  of 
tilt  poet  and  orator  united  could  hardly  furnish  a  perfect  descrip- 
tion of  the  double  delight  which  this  unexpected  honour  afforded 
to  the  author,  and  to  the  good  old  enthusiastic  admirer  and  che- 
visher  of  his  talents,  Mrs.  Unwin.  Her  feelings  were  infinitely 
the  most  vivid  on  this  agreeable  occasion  ;  for  the  poet,  though  he 
trulv  enjoved  such  honourable  applause,  was  ever  on  his  guard 
agi'inst  the  perils  of  praise,  and  had  continually  impressed  on  his 
own  devout  spirit,  his  primary  motives  of  poetical  ambition.  The 
mention  of  these  motives,  which  conduce,  as  well  as  his  extraor- 
dmary  powers,  to  distinguish  CoAvper  in  the  highest  rank  of  illus- 
trious poets,  will  naturally  lead  me  to  consider  him  in  that  point  of 
view,  and  to  examine  the  difficulties  he  has  surmounted,  and  the 
great  aims  he  has  accomplished,  in  his  poetical  capacity. 

Accident,  idleness,  want,  spleen,  love,  and  the  passion  for  fame, 
have  all,  in  their  turns,  had  such  occasional  influence  over  the  hu- 
man fiiculties,  as  to  induce  men  of  considerable  mental  powers  to 
devote  themselves  to  the  composition  of  verse :  but  the  poetical 
character  of  Cowper  appears  to  have  had  a  much  nobler  origin. 
To  estimate  that  character  according  to  its  real  dignity,  we  should 
consider  him  as  a  pcet  formed  by  the  munificence  of  nature  and 
the  decrees  of  heaven.  He  seems  to  have  received  his  rare  poeti- 
cal powers  as  a  gift  from  providence,  to  compensate  the  pressure 
of  much  personal  calamity,  and  to  enable  him  to  become,  though 
h-ecluded  by  irregular  health  from  the  worldly  business,  and  from 
the  ordinary  pastimes  of  men,  a  singular  benefactor  to  mankind. 

If  Ave  attend  to  the  rise  and  progress  of  his  works,  we  shall  per- 
ceive that  such  was  the  predominant  aim  of  this  truly  philanthropic 
poet,  and  tiiat,  in  despight  of  his  manifold  impediments  and  trou- 
bles, heaven  graciously  enabled  him  to  accomplish  the  noblest  pur- 
pose that  the  sublimest  faculties  can  devise  for  their  own  most  ar- 
duous exercise,  and  most  delightful  reward.  He  had  cultivated 
his  native  talent  for  poeti-v  in  early  life,  although  the  extreme  mo- 
desty of  his  nature  had  restrained  him  from  a  public  display  of  his 
poetical  powers.  Through  many  years  of  mental  disquietude  and 
affliction,  that  powerful  talent,  which  was  destined  to  burst  forth 
with  such  unrivalled  lustre,  seems  to  have  i-emained  in  absolute  in- 
activity; but  in  different  seasons  of  a  very  long  abstinence  from 
poetical  exertion,  his  mind  had  been  engs^ed  in  such  studies  (when 
iicalth  allowed  him  to  study)  as  form,  perhaps,  the  best  possible 
preparation  for  great  poetical  achievements :  I  mean  a  fervent 
application  to  that  book  which  furnishes  the  most  ample  and  be- 
neficial aliment  to  the  heart  and  to  the  fanc}',  tlie  book  to  wliich 


154  LIFE  OP  COWPER. 

Milton  and  Young  were  indebted  for  their  poetical  sublimitVy 
Cowper,  in  reading  the  Bible,  admired  and  studied  the  eloquence 
of  the  prophets.  He  was  particularly  charmed  with  the  energy 
©f  their  language  in  describing  the  wrath  of  the  Almighty. 

By  his  zealous  attention  to  the  scripture,  he  incessantly  trea- 
sured in  his  own  capacious  mind  those  inexhaustible  stores  of  sen- 
timent and  expression  which  enabled  him  gradually  to  ascend  the 
purest  heights  of  poetical  renown,  which  rendered  him,  at  last, 
what  he  ardently  wished  to  prove — the  poet  of  Christianity— the 
monitor  of  the  world. 

It  was  after  a  very  long  and  severe  fit  of  mental  depression, 
that,  by  the  friendly  request  of  his  faithful  associate  in  affliction, 
he  sought,  in  poetical  composition  of  considerable  extent,  a  salu- 
tary exercise  for  a  mind  formed  for  the  most  active  and  beneficent 
exertion,  though  occasionally  subject  to  an  utter  suspension  of  its 
admirable  powers.  I  have  already  mentioned  the  circumstance, 
communicated  to  me  by  Mrs.  Unwin,  concerning  the  first  exten- 
sive poem,  in  point  of  time,  that  appears  in  the  first  volume  of 
Cowper. 

"  The  Progress  of  Error"  seems  the  least  attractive  among  the 
several  admonitory  poems  of  the  collection,  and  we  judge  from  it, 
that  even  the  genius  of  Cowper  required  the  frequent  habit  of  writ- 
ing verse  to  display  itself  to  advantage.  Yet  even  this  poem,  in 
which  he  is  said  to  have  made  the  first  serious  trial  of  his  long 
suspended  talent,  has  passages  of  exquisite  beauty.  Take,  for  ex- 
ample, his  portrait  of  Innocence  and  Folly,  painted  with  the  delicate 
simplicity  and  tenderness  of  Corregio. 

Both  baby-featur'd,  and  of  infant  size, 

View'd  from  a  distance,  and  with  heedless  eyes. 

Folly  and  Innocence  are  so  alike. 

The  difF'rence,  though  essential,  fails  to  strike : 

Yet  Folly  ever  has  a  vacant  stare, 

A  simp'ring  coimtenance,  a  trifling  air  : 

But  Innocence,  sedate,  serene,  erect. 

Delights  us  by  engaging  our  respect. 

This  poem  also  discovers,  in  some  degree,  that  wonderful  com- 
bination of  very  different  powers,  which  the  subsequent  works  of 
Cowper  display  in  delightful  profusion. 

The  affectionate  and  accomplished  biographer  of  Burns  has  fal- 
len (only,  I  apprehend,  from  a  casual  slip  of  memory)  into  a  sort  of 
silent  injustice  towards  Cowper,  when  in  speaking  of  the  few  poets 
•^  who  have  at  once  excelled  in  humour,  in  tenderness,  and  in  sub- 


LIFE  OF  COWTER.  135 

limity,"  he  affirms  that  "  this  praise,  in  mtxlern  times,  is  only  due 
to  Ariosto,  to  Shakspeare,  and  perhaps  to  Voltaire." 

Recollection,  I  am  confident,  will  rapidly  convince  such  a  con- 
summate judge  of  poetical  merit,  that  the  works  of  Cowper  con- 
tain many  examples  of  that  triple  ey.cellence,  which  is  assuredly 
most  rare,  and  which  the  masterly  birgrapher  very  justly  attri- 
butes to  the  marvellous  peasant  whose  life  and  genius  he  has  so 
feelingly  and  so  honourably  described.  But  to  return  to  the  poem 
of  which  I  was  speaking :  it  proves  that  Cowper  could  occasionally 
blend  the  moral  humour  of  Hogarth,  with  the  tenderness  and  sub- 
limity that  belong  to  artists  of  a  superior  rank.  The  portraits  of 
the  English  travellers  and  the  foreign  Abbe,  that  are  sketched  ia 
this  poem,  are  all  touched  with  the  spirit  of  Hogarth. 

The  Progi'ess  of  Error  contains  also  some  of  those  happy  verses 
of  serious  morality,  in  which  Cowper  excelled  ;  verses  diat,  ex- 
pressing a  simple  truth  with  perfect  grace  and  precision,  rapidly 
fix  themselves,  and  with  a  lasting  proverbial  influence,  on  the  me- 
mory. I  will  cite  only  two  detached  couplets  in  proof  of  my  as- 
sertion. 

None  sends  his  arrow  to  the  mark  in  view. 
Whose  hand  is  feeble,  or  his  aim  untrue. 
Call'd  to  the  temple  of  impure  delight; 
He  that  abstains,  and  he  alone  docs  right. 

As  soon  as  Cowper  found  that  the  composition  of  moral  verse 
was  medicinal  to  his  own  mind,  he  seems  to  have  formed  the  noble 
resolution  of  making  his  works'an  universal  medicine  for  the  va- 
rious mental  infirmities  of  the  world.  His  own  ideas  on  this  sub- 
ject are  perfectly  expressed  in  the  following  passage  from  his  first 
letter  to  his  friend  Mr.  Bull,  who  began  his  correspondence  with 
the  poet  by  a  letter  of  praise,  on  the  publication  of  his  first  vo- 
lume. 

^^  March  24,  17-82. 
»  *  *  *         *         *         * 

"  Your  letter  gave  me  great  pleasure,  both  as  a  testimony  of  your 
approbation  and  of  your  regard.  I  wrote  in  hopes  of  pleasing 
you,  and  such  as  you,  and  though  I  must  confess  that,  at  the  same 
time,  I  cast  a  side-lojig  glance  at  the  good-liking  of  the  woi-ld  at 
large,  I  believe  I  can  say  it  was  more  for  the  sake  of  their  ad- 
vantage and  instruction  than  their  praise.  They  ai-e  children ;  if 
we  give  them  physic,  we  must  sweeten  the  rim  of  the  cup  with  ho- 
ney. If  m)-  book  is  so  far  honoured  as  to  be  made  the  vehicle  of 
true  knowledge  to  any  that  are  ignorant,  I  shall  rejoice,  and  do 
adready  rejoice,  that  it  has  procured  me  a  proof  of  3  our  esteem." 


136  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

It  was  probably  this  idea  of  tinging  the  rim  of  the  cup  with  ho- 
ney (an  expression  used  by  Lucretius  and  by  Tasso)  which  in- 
duced Cov.'j)er  to  place  in  the  front  of  his  volume  the  poem  en- 
titled Table  Talk.  The  title  has  in  itself  an  inviting  appearance, 
and  the  lively  desultory  spirit  of  the  composition  sufficiendy  vindi-* 
cates  the  propriety  of  the  title.  It  is  a  rapid  and  animated  des-^ 
cant  on  a  variety  of  interesting  topics.  The  brief  tale  from  that 
humoix)us  and  high-spirited  Spaniard,  Quevedo,  is  admirably  told, 
and  I  have  frequently  heard  it  recited  as  a  most  striking  example 
of  Gowper's  talent  for  such  narration,  by  a  very  dear  departed 
friend  of  the  nK)st  delicate  discernment. 

The  poet,  in  this  outset  of  his  moral  enterprise,  bestows  a  grace- 
ful compliment  on  his  soA'ereign— 

"  His  life  a  lesson  to  the  land  he  sways." 

And  he  judged  it  right  to  annex  to  this  high  compliment  such  a 
profession  of  his  own  independent  spirit  as  every  ingenuous  mind 
must  delight  to  observe  from  the  pen  of  a  poet,  when  his  life  and 
bis  writings  reflect  a  reciprocal  lustre  on  each  other. 

A  bribe ! 
The  worth  of  his  three  kingdoms  I  defy 
To  lure  me  to  tlie  baseness  of  a  iie  ; 
And  of  all  lies  (be  that  one  poet's  boast ! ) 
The  lie  that  flatters  I  abhor  the  most. 

This  professed  abhorrence  of  adulation  was  uttered  in  the  real 
spirit  of  simplicity  and  truth.  No  poet  was  ever  more  perfectly 
free  fi'om  that  base  propensity,  which  is  sometimes  erroneously 
imputed  to  the  poetical  tribe,  who,  from  their  peculiar  warmth  of 
sensation,  are  often  thought  to  flatter,  when  they  speak  only  their 
genuine  feelings. 

Perhaps  Cowper  sometimes  indulged  himself  in  a  very  different 
Weakness,  if  I  may  call  the  little  excesses  of  a  generous  independ- 
ent pride  by  so  harsh  an  appellation. 

It  is  incumbent  on  me  to  explain  the  petty  foible  of  my  friend  to 
■which  I  allude.  Having  composed,  from  the  impulse  of  his  heai-t, 
his  little  poem  on  the  elevation  of  his  intimate  companion  in  former 
days.  Lord  Thurlow,  to  the  dignity  of  Chancellor,  he  condemned  it 
to  lie  in  long  concealment,  from  an  apprehension  that,  although  he 
knew  the  praise  to  be  just,  it  might  be  supposed  to  flow  from  a  sor- 
did and  .selfish  solicitude  to  derive  some  advantage  from  the  recent 
grarndeur  of  a  man  v*Iiom  he  had  once  cordially  loved,  but  whom 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  13? 

their  different  destinies  had  made  for  many  years  ahtiost  a  personal 
stranger  to  the  poet,  though  never  an  ahen  to  his  heart. 

But  to  resume  the  few  remarks  I  wish  to  make  on  the  Poem  of 
Table  Talk.     It  contains  what  Cowper  could  readily  command,  a 
great  variety  of  style.     Much  of  the  poem  has  the  manner  of 
Churchill,  and  pai'ticularly  the  lines  that  exhibit  a  strong  charac- 
ter of  that  popular  and  powerful  satirist ;  a  poet  whose  h;ghest 
excellence  Cowper  possessed,  v/ith  many  more  refined  attractions, 
■which  the  energetic,  but  coarse  spirit  of  that  modern  Juvenal  could 
not  attain.    Towards  the  close  of  Table-Talk,  the  poet  introduces, 
very  happily,  what  he  had  proposed  to  himself  as  the  main  scope 
of  his  own  poetical  labours — the  service  that  a  poet  may  render  to 
the  great  interest  of  religion.     This  he  describes  in  a  strain  of  sub- 
limity, and  contrasts  it  very  ably  Avith  inferior  objects  of  poetical 
ambition. 

From  this  poem  of  infinite  diversity  it  would  be  easy  to  select 
specimens  of  almost  every  excellence  that  can  be  found  in  a  work 
of  this  nature.  Truth,  however,  obliges  me  to  observe,  that  this 
admirable  prelude  to  the  collected  poetry  of  Cowper  has  a  weak 
and  ungraceful  conclusion. 

The  four  poems,  entitled.  Truth,  Expostulation,  Hope,  and  Cha- 
rity,  are  four   Christian  exhortations  to  piety,   which   may   be 
thought  tedious  and  dull  by  readers  who  have  no  relish  for  devo- 
tional eloquence,  or  who,  however  blest  with  a  serious  sense  of  re- 
ligion, have  too  hastily  admitted  the  very  strange  and  groundless 
dogma  of  Dr.  Johnson,  that  "  contemplative  piety  cannot  be  poe- 
tical;" a  position  resembling  that  of  the  ancient  sophist,  who  de- 
nied the  existence  of  motion,  and  whose  indignant  hearer  answered 
him  by  walking  immediately  in  his  sight.     With  such  simple  and 
forcible  refutation,  the  genius  of  Cowper  replies  to  the  paradoxical 
pedantry  of  a  critic,  whose  high  intellectual  powers,  when  he  ex- 
erts and  exhausts  them  to  command  and  illuminate  the  expansive 
sphere  of  poetry,  delight  and  disgust  his  readers  alternately,  by  a 
frequent  mixture  of  gigantic  force  and  dwarfish  imbecility.     His 
weak,  though  solemn  sophistry  on  this  subject  is  completely  re- 
futed by  the  poems  of  Cowper,  because  contemplative  piety,  which, 
according  to  the  critic's  assertion,  cannot  be  poetical,  is,  in  truth, 
one  of  the  most  powerful  charms  by  which  this  devout  poet  accom- 
plishes his  poetical  enchantment. 

But  to  return  to  the  four  sacred  poems  that  lead  me  to  this  re- 
mark. That  on  Tinidi  exhibits  the  author's  singular  talent  of 
blending  the  humorous  and  the  sublime.  In  his  portrait  of  the 
sanctified  pride,  he  is  at  once  the  cop}ist  and  the  compeer  of  Ho- 
garth :  in  his  i)icturc  of  cheerful  piety,  and  true  Christian  free- 

VOL.  II.  T 


138  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

dom,  he  soars  to  a  species  of  excellence  that  the  pencil  of  Ho- 
garth could  not  conimand. 

■  Expostulation  flows  in  a  more  even  tenor  of  sublime  admonition : 
it  was  founded  on  a  sermon  preached  by  the  author's  zealous  and 
eloquent  friend,  Mr.  Newton,  and  contains  the  following  admirable 
description  of  what  the  clergy  ought  to  be. 

The  priestly  brotherhood,  devout,  sincere, 
From  mean  self-interest  and  ambition  clear, 
Their  hope  in  heaven,  servility  their  scorn, 
Prompt  to  persuade,  expostulate,  and  warn  ; 
Their  wisdom  pure,  and  given  them  from  above  j 
Their  usefulness  insur'd  by  zeal  and  love  ; 
As  meek  as  the  man  Moses,  and  withal 
As  bold  as,  in  Agrippa's  presence,  Paul ; 
Shoidd  fly  the  world's  contaminating  touch, 
Holy  and  unpolluted ;  are  thine  such  ? 

I  will  not  transcribe  the  closing  couplet,  because  it  appears  ta 
me  one  of  the  few  passages  in  the  poet  where  the  warm  current  of 
his  zeal  hurried  him  into  a  hasty  expression  of  asperity,  not  in  uni- 
son with  the  native  and  habitual  candour  of  his  contemplative  mind. 

The  Poem  on  Hope,  although  the  poet  means  only  to  describe 

"  That  hope  which  can  alone  exclude  despair," 

has  a  gay  diversity  of  colouring,  and  the  dialogue  introduced  is 
■written  with  exquisite  pleasantry.  The  great  and  constant  aim  of 
the  author  is  expressed  in  his  motto, 

*'  Doceas  iter,  et  sacra  ostia  pandas." 

In  the  commencement  of  his  Poem  on  Charity,  the  author  ren- 
ders a  just  and  eloquent  tribute  to  the  humanity  of  Captain  Cook ; 
and  in  the  progress  of  it  bursts  into  an  animated  and  graceful  eu- 
logy on  Howard,  the  visitor  of  prisons.  The  sentiments  that  Cow- 
per  endeavours  to  impress  on  the  heart  of  his  reader,  in  this  series 
of  devotional  poems,  are  drawn  from  the  great  fountain  of  intel- 
lectual purity,  the  gospel ;  and  to  the  poet,  in  his  character  of  a 
Chi-istian  Monitor,  we  may  justly  and  gratefully  apply  the  follow- 
ing verses  from  this  poem  on  Charity. 

When  one  that  holds  communion  with  the  skies 
Has  fili'd  his  urn  where  these  pure  watex-s  rise, 


LIFE  O^  COWPER.  139 

And  once  more  mingles  with  iis  meaner'  things, 
'Tis  e'en  as  if  an  angel  shook  his  wings ; 
Immortal  fragrance  fills  the  circuit  wide 
That  tells  us  whence  his  treasures  are  supplied. 

In  the  extensive  and  admirably  varied  Poem  on  Conversation, 
the  poet  shines  as  a  teacher  of  manners  as  well  as  of  morality  and 
religion. 

It  is  remarkable  that,  in  this  work,  he  is  particularly  severe  on 
what  he  considered  as  his  own  peculiar  defect,  that  excess  of  dif- 
fidence, that  insurmountable  shyness,  which  is  so  apt  to  freeze  the 
current  of  English  conversation. 

Our  sensibilities  are  so  acute, 

The  fear  of  being  silent  makes  us  mute. 

True  modesty  is  a  discerning  grace, 

And  only  blushes  in  the  proper  place  ; 

But  counterfeit  is  blind,  and  skulks  through  fear, 

Where  'tis  a  shame  to  be  asham'd  t'  appear ;  \ 

Humility  the  parent  of  the  first. 

The  last  by  vanity  produced,  and  nurs'd. 

The  circle  form'd,  we  sit,  in  silent  state, 

Like  figures  drawn  upon  a  dial-plate. 

Yes  Ma'am,  and  no  Ma'am,  utter'd  softly,  show, 

Every  five  minutes,  how  the  minutes  go. 

This  poem  abounds  with  much  admirable  description,  both  serious 
ji.nd  comic.  The  portrait  of  the  splenetic  man  is,  perhaps,  the  most 
highly  finished  example  of  comic  power  ;  and  the  scene  of  the  two 
disciples  on  their  way  to  Emmaus,  is  a  perfect  model  of  solemn 
and  graceful  simplicity.  I  cannot  cease  to  speak  of  this  very  at- 
tractive poem  without  observing,  that  the  author  has  inserted  in  it 
two  passages  intended  to  obviate  such  objections  as  he  conceived 
most  likely  to  be  urged  against  the  tendency  of  his  writings.  He 
was  aware  that  the  light  and  vain  might  suppose  him  a  gloomy 
fanatic,  and  as  a  preservative  against  such  injurious  misconcep- 
tion, he  composed  the  following  just  and  animated  lines. 

What  is  fanatic  frenzy  ?  scoi-n'd  so  much  ! 
And  dreaded  more  than  a  contagious  touch. 
I  grant  it  dangerous,  and  approve  your  fear ; 
That  fire  is  catching  if  you  draw  too  near ; 
Jiut  sage  observers  oft  mistake  the  flame, 
And  give  true  piety  that  odious  name. 


m  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

He  then  draws  an  excellent  picture  of  veal  fanaticism,  and  such 
a  picture  as  could  not  have  been  painted  by  one  of  her  votaries. 

Again,  to  vindicate  the  cheerful  tendency  of  the  lessons  he  wished 
to  inculcate,  he  exclaims, 

— —  Let  no  man  charge  me,  that  I  mean 
To  clothe  in  sables  every  social  scene, 
And  give  good  company  a  face  severe. 
As  if  they  met  around  a  father's  bier ! 

1  will  add  a  few  verses  from  the  close  of  the  poem,  because  they 
appear  a  just  description  of  his  own  eloquence,  both  in  poetry  and 
conversation,  when  he  conversed  with  those  he  loved — He  is  speak- 
ing of  a  character  improved  by  a  proper  sense  of  religion. 

Thus  touch'd,  the  tongue  receives  a  sacred  cure 
For  all  that  was  absurd,  prophane,  impure : 
Held  within  modest  bounds,  the  tide  of  speech 
Pursues  the  course  that  truth  and  nature  teach ; 
Where'er  it  winds,  the  salutary  stream, 
Sprightly  and  fresh,  enriches  every  theme  ; 
While  all  the  happy  man  possess'd  before, 
The  gift  of  nature,  or  the  classic  store, 
Is  made  subservient  to  the  grand  design 
For  which  Heaven  form'd  the  faculty  divine. 

The  Poem  on  Retirement  may  be  a  delightful  and  useful  lesson 
to  those  who  wish  to  enjoy  and  improve  a  condition  of  life  which 
is  generally  coveted  by  all  in  some  period  of  their  existence.  The 
different  votaries  of  retirement  ai'e  veiy  happily  described ;  and 
the  portrait  of  Melancholy,  in  particular,  has  all  that  minute 
and  forcible  excellence,  derived  from  the  faithful  delineation  of 
nature ;  for  the  poet  described  himself  when  under  the  overwhelm- 
ing pressm-e  of  that  grievous  malady.  The  caution  to  the  lover  is 
expressed  with  all  the  delicacy  and  force  of  the  most  friendly  ad- 
monition ;  and  the  fair  sex  are  too  much  obliged  to  the  tenderness 
of  the  poet  to  resent  his  bold  assertion,  that  they  are  not  entitled  to 
absolute  adoration. 

This  poem  contains  several  of  those  exquisite  proverbial  coup- 
lets that  I  have  noticed  on  a  former  occasion.  Verses  like  the 
following  are  fit  to  be  treasured  in  the  heart  of  every  man. 

An  idler  is  a  watch  that  wants  both  hands ; 
A^  Hspless  if  it  goes,  as  when  it  stands. 


LIFE  OF  COVVPER.  141 

Absence  of  occupation  is  not  rest ; 

A  mind  quite  vacant  is  a  mind  distrest. 

Religion  does  not  censure,  or  exliidc 
Unnumber'd  pleasures,  harmlessly  pursued. 

The  very  sweet  close  of  this  poem  I  will  not  dwell  upon  at  pre- 
sent, because  I  mean  to  notice  it  in  collecting,  as  I  advance,  the 
most  remarkable  passages  of  the  poet,  in  which  he  has  spoken  of 
himself.  I  must  not,  however,  bid  adieu  to  liis  first  volume  for  the 
present,  without  observing  that,  of  the  smaller  poems  at  the  end  of 
it,  three  are  eminently  happy,  both  in  sentiment  and  expression; 
the  verses  assigned  to  Alexander  Selkirk,  the  Winter  Nosega}', 
and  Mutual  Forbearance. 

It  may,  perhaps,  console  some  future  diffident  poet,  on  his  first 
appearance  in  public,  if  his  merits  happen  to  be  depreciated  by 
the  presumptuous  sentence  of  periodical  criticism  ;  it  may  console 
him  to  be  informed,  that  when  the  first  volume  of  Cowper  was  ori- 
ginally published,  one  of  the  critical  journals  of  his  day  repre- 
sented him  as  a  good  devout  gentleman,  without  a  particle  of  true 
poetical  genius.  To  tliis  very  curious  decision  we  may  apply  with 
a,  pleasant  sti-oke  of  poetical  justice,  the  following  couplet  from  the 
Book  so  sagaciously  described. 

The  moles  and  bats,  in  full  assembly,  find. 
On  special  search,  the  keen-eyed  eagle  blind. 

But  to  those  who  were  inclined  to  deny  his  title  to  the  rank  and 
dignity  of  a  poet,  Cowper  made  the  best  of  all  possible  replies,  by 
publishing  a  poem  which  rapidly  and  jusly  became  a  prime  fa- 
vourite with  every  poetical  reader. 

In  his  Task^  he  not  only  surpassed  all  his  former  compositions, 
but  executed  an  extensive  work,  of  such  original  and  di\  ersified 
excellence,  that,  as  it  arose  without  the  aid  of  any  model,  so  it 
will  probably  remain  for  ever  unequalled  by  a  succession  of  imi- 
tators. 

Undo  nil  majus  generatur  ipso, 

Nee  viget  quicquam  simile  aut  secundum. 

The  Task  may  be  called  a  bird's-eye  view  of  human  life.  It  is 
a  minute  and  extensive  survey  of  every  thing  most  interesting  to 
the  reason,  to  the  fancy,  and  to  the  affections  of  man.  It  exhibits 
^js  pleasures  and  his  pains,  his  pastimes  and  his  business,  his  folly 


142  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

and  his  wisdom,  his  dangers  and  his  duties,  all  with  such  exqui^ 
site  facility  and  force  of  expression,  with  such  grace  and  dignity  of 
sentiment,  that  rational  beings,  who  wish  to  render  themselves 
more  amiable  and  more  liappy,  can  hardly  be  more  advantageously 
employed  than  in  frequent  perusal  of  the  Task. 

"  O  how  fay  re  fruits  may  you  to  mortal  men 

*'  From  Wisdom's  garden  give!     How  many  may 

"  By  you  the  wiser  and  the  better  prove !" 

To  apply  three  verses,  of  singular  simplicity,  from  Nicliolas  Gri- 
moald,  (one  of  the  earliest  v/riters  of  English  blank  verse)  to  the 
poet  wlio  has  added  such  a  large  increase  of  variegated  lustre  to 
that  species  of  composition. 

The  Task,  beginning  with  all  the  peaceful  attractions  of  sportive 
gaiety,  rises  to  the  most  solemn  and  awful  grandeur,  to  the  highest 
strain  of  religious  solemnity.  Its  fi-equent  variation  of  tone  is  mas- 
terly in  the  greatest  degree,  and  the  main  spell  of  that  inexhausti- 
ble enchantment  which  hurries  the  reader  through  a  flowery 
maze  of  many  thousand  verses,  without  allowing  him  to  feel  a 
moment  of  languor  or  fatigue.  Perhaps  no  author,  ancient  or 
modem,  ever  possessed,  so  completely  as  Cowper,  the  nice  art 
of  passing,  by  the  most  delicate  transition,  from  subjects  to  subjects 
that  might  otherwise  seem  but  little  or  not  at  all  allied  to  each 
other,  the  rare  talent 

"  Happily  to  steer 
"  From  grave  to  gay,  from  lively  to  severe." 

The  Task  may  be  compared  to  one  of  the  grand  fabrics  of  mu- 
sical contrivance,  where  a  single  work  contains  a  vast  variety  of 
power  for  producing  such  harmony  and  delight  as  might  be  ex- 
pected to  arise  only  from  a  large  collection  of  instruments.  The 
auditor  is  charmed  by  the  vicissitudes  of  partial  excellence,  and 
astonished  by  the  magnificent  compass  of  a  single  production.  But 
the  supreme  attraction  of  the  Task  arises  from  that  conviction, 
which  all  who  delight  in  it  cannot  fail  to  feel,  that  the  poet,  however 
pre-eminent  in  intellectual  powers,  must  have  been  equally  pre- 
eminent in  tender  benevolence  of  heart.  His  reader  loves  him  as 
a  sympathetic  friend,  and  blesses  him  as  an  invaluable  instructor. 

Tiie  truth  of  this  remark  may  be  illustrated  l^y  the  following 
verses,  which  I  insert  with  pleasure,  although  I  know  not  their 
author,  as  an  elegant  proof  of  that  affection  in  a  stranger,  which 
tlie  poetry  of  Cowper  has  such  a  peculiar  tendency  to  inspire, 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  l^S 

On  seeing  a  Sketch  of  Co  wp eh  by  LAWREi^CE. 

Sweet  bard,  whose  mind,  thus  pictur'd  in  thy  face, 
O'er  every  feature  spreads  a  nobler  grace; 
Wiiose  keen,  but  soften'd  eve  appears  to  dart 
A  look  of  pity  through  the  human  heart; 
To  search  the  secrets  of  man's  inward  frame; 
To  weep  with  sorrow  o'er  his  guilt  and  shame. 
Sweet  bard,  with  whom,  in  sympathy  of  choice, 
I've  oftimes  left  the  world,  at  nature's  voice, 
T  1  join  the  song  that  all  her  creatures  raise, 
To  carol  forth  their  great  Creator's  praise: 
Or,  wrapt  in  visions  of  immortal  day, 
Have  gaz'd  on  Truth  in  Zion's  heavenly  way. 
Sweet  bard,  may  this  thine  image,  all  I  know, 
Or  ever  may,  of  Cowper's  form  below. 
Teach  one  who  views  it,  with  a  Christian's  love, 
To  seek,  and  find  thee  i-n  the  realms  above. 


Persons  who  estimate  poetical  talents  more  from  the  arbitrary 
dictates  of  established  criticism  than  from  their  own  feelings,  may 
be  disposed  to  exclude  Cowper  from  the  highest  rank  of  poets,  be- 
cause he  has  written  no  original  work  of  the  epic  form : — He  has 
constructed  no  fable ;  he  has  described  no  great  action,  accomplished 
by  a  variety  of  characters,  derived  either  from  history  or  inven- 
tion. But  if  the  great  epic  poets  of  all  nations  were  assemlsled  to 
g[ive  their  suffrages  concerning  the  rank  to  be  assigned  to  Cow'per  as 
a  poet,  I  am  persuaded  tliey  would  address  him  to  this  effect :  "  Vv'e 
are  proud  to  receive  you  as  a  brother,  because,  if  the  form  of  your 
composition  is  different  from  ours,  you  are  certainly  equal  to  the 
Tiolilcst  of  onr  fraternity  in  the  scope  and  effect  of  your  verse.  You 
are  so  truly  a  poet  by  the  munificence  of  natui-e,  that  she  seems  to 
have  given  you  an  exclusive  faculty,  (resembling  the  fabulous  faculty 
of  Midas  relating  to  gold,  though  given  to  you  for  beneficial  pur- 
poses alone)  the  faculty  of  turning  whatever  you  touch  to  a  fit 
subject  for  poetry :  you  ai"c  tlui  jjoet  of  familiar  life  :  but  you  paint 
it  with  such  felicity  of  design  and  execution,  that,  as  long  as  vei-se 
is  valued  upon  earth  as  a  vehicle  of  instruction  and  delight,  you 
must  and  ought  to  be  revered  and  beloved  as  pre-eminently  in- 
structive and  delightful :  by  having  accomplished,  with  equal  feli- 
city, the  two  great  and  arduous  objects  of  your  art,  you  have  de- 
served to  be  the  most  popular  of  poets." 


144  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

Such,  I  apprehend,  would  be  the  praise  which  all  the  perfect 
Judges  of  his  poetry,  could  they  be  selected  from  every  age,  past, 
pi'esent,  and  ioture,  would  unanimously  bestow  on  the  genius  of 
Cowper.  Yet  the  Task,  though,  taken  altogether,  it  is,  perhaps, 
the  m.ost  attractive  poem  that  was  ever  produced,  and  such  as  re- 
quired the  rarest  assemblage  of  truly  poetical  powers  for  its  pro- 
duction, bears,  like  every  work  from  a  human  hand,  that  certain 
mark  of  a  mortal  agent — defect.  Even  the  partiality  of  friendship 
must  allow  that  the  Task  has  its  blemishes,  and  the  greatest  of 
them  is  tliat  tone  of  asperity  in  reproof,  which  I  am  persuaded  its 
gentle  and  benevolent  author  caught  unconsciously  from  his  fre- 
quent perusal  of  the  prophets.  The  severe  invective  against  the 
commemoration  of  Handel  is  the  most  striking  instance  of  the  as- 
perity to  Avhich  I  allude,  and  it  awakened  the  displeasure  of  a  po- 
etical lady,  whose  displeasure  CoAvper,  of  all  men,  would  have  been 
most  truly  sorry  to  have  excited,  had  he  been  as  well  acquainted 
with  the  charms  of  her  conversation  as  he  was  with  her  literary 
talents.  » 

Cowper's  eminent  contemporary,  the  favourite  poet  of  Scotland, 
seems  to  have  felt,  with  fraternal  sensibility,  both  the  beauties 
and  the  blemishes  of  this  most  celebrated  work. 

*'  Is  not  the  Task  a  glorious  poem  ?"  says  Burns,  in  one  of  his 
letters  to  his  accomplished  and  generous  friend,  Mrs.  Dunlop : 
*'  the  religion  of  the  Task,  bating  a  few  scraps  of  Calvinistic  divi- 
nity, is  the  religion  of  God  and  nature,  the  religion  that  exalts, 
tliat  ennobles  man." 

Though  Cowper  occasionally  caught  a  cei'tain  air  of  Calvinistic 
austerity,  he  had  not  a  particle  of  Calvin's  intolerance  in  his  heart. 
He  could  never  have  occasioned  the  cruel  death  of  a  Servetus. 
Indulgence  and  good  nature  were  the  poet's  predominant  quaUties, 
and  their  influence  was  such,  that,  although  his  extraordinary  ta- 
lents for  satire  threw  pei-petual  temptation  in  his  way,  he  declined 
the  temptation:  he  chose  to  be  not  a  satirist,  but  a  monitor. 
«  Fitce  sa?ictitas  suvnna^  comitas  par ;  insectatur  -vitia  non  homi- 
nes." He  wisely  observed  that  the  most  dignified  satirists  are  little 
better  than  mere  beadles  of  Parnassus.  He  considered  satire 
rather  as  the  bane  than  the  glory  both  of  Dryden  and  of  Pope.  In 
truth,  though  many  an  upright  man  has,  in  a  lit  of  honest  moral 
indis^iation,  begun  to  write  satire,  in  a  persuasion  that  such  works 
would  benefit  the  world  and  do  honour  to  himself,  yet  even  satirists 
of  this  higher  order  have  generally  found  that  they  did  little  more 
than  gratify  the  common  malignity  of  the  world,  and  suffer  angry 
and  blind  prejudice  and  passions  to  insinuate  themselves  imper- 
ceptibly into  their  nobler  purposes,  disfiguring  their  works  and 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  145 

disquieting  their  lives.  Such,  perhaps,  was  the  natural  train  of 
reftection  that  sugsjested  to  Boileau  the  admiraljle  verse  in  which 
he  feelingly  and  candidly  condemns  the  path  that  he  had  himself 
pursued — 

"  C'est  un  mauvais  metier  que  celui  de  medire." 

Cowper  felt  the  truth  of  this  maxim  so  forcibly,  that  in  his  Poem 
on  Chiirity  he  has  turned  the  sharpest  w^eapons  of  satire  against 
the  satirists  themselves. 

Their  acrid  temper  turns,  as  soon  as  stirr'd 
The  milk  of  their  good  purpose  all  to  curd ; 
Their  zeal  begotten,  as  their  works  rehearse, 
By  lean  despair  upon  an  empty  purse, 
The  wild  assassins  start  into  the  street, 
Prepar'd  to  poignard  Avhomsoe'er  they  meet. 

These  lines  are  alone  sufficient  to  prove  that  Co-wper  could 
occasionally  assume  the  utmost  severity  of  invective  ;  yet  nature 
formed  him  to  delight  in  exhortation  more  than  in  reproof;  and 
hence  he  justly  describes  himself,  in  his  true  monitory  character, 
in  the  verses  that  very  sweetly  terminate  his  instructive  Poem  cm 
Retirement. 

Content,  if,  thus  sequester'd,  I  may  raisfe 
A  monitor's,  though  not  a  poet's  praise ; 
And  while  I  teach  an  art  too  little  known, 
To  close  life  wisely,  m^y  not  waste  my  own. 

WTien  a  poet  has  so  nobly  entitled  himself  to  the  esteem  and  af- 
fection of  his  readers,  the  most  fastidious  of  tliem  can  hardly  be 
inclined  to  censure  him  as  an  egotist,  if  he  takes  more  than  one 
occasion  to  draw  his  own  portrait.  Few  passages  in  Horace  ai-e 
read  with  more  pleasure  than  the  verses  in  which  he  gives  a  cir- 
cumstantial account  of  himself.  This  reflection  induces  me  to 
add  a  few  lines  from  the  Task,  in  which  the  poet  has  delineated 
liis  own  situation  exactly  in  that  point  of  view  which  must  be  most 
pleasmg  to  those  who  most  feel  an  interest  in  his  lot. 

The  more  we  have  sympathised  in  his  afflictions,  the  more  we 
may  rejoice  in  recoUectnig  that  he  had  seasons  of  felicity,  which 
he,  in  some  measure,  makes  our  own  by  the  delightful  fidelity  of 
his  description. 

VOL.   u.  V 


i4S  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

"  Had  I  the  choice  of  sublunary  good, 

What  could  I  wish  that  I  possess  not  here? 

Health,  leisure,  means  t'  improve  it,  friendslxip,  peaccj 

No  loose  or  wanton,  though  a  wand'ring  muse, 

And  constant  occupation  without  care^ 

Thus  bless'd,  I  draw  a  picture  of  that  bliss; 

Hopeless,  indeed,  that  dissipated  minds, 

And  profligate  abusers  of  a  world 

Created  fair  so  much  in  vain  for  them. 

Should  seek  the  guiltless  joys  that  I  describe, 

Allur'd  by  my  report , — ^but  sure,  no  less. 

That,  self-condemn'd,  they  nmst  neglect  the  prize, 

And  what  they  will  not  taste  must  yet  approve. 

What  we  admire  we  praise,  and  when  we  praise, 

Advance  it  into  notice,  that  its  worth 

Acknowledg'd,  others  may  admire  it  too : 

I  therefore  recommend,  though  at  the  risk 

Of  popular  disgust,  yet  boldly  still. 

The  cause  of  Piety,  and  sacred  Truth, 

And  Virtue,  and  those  scenes  which  God  ordain'd 

Should  best  secure  them,  and  promote  them  most; 

Scenes  that  I  love,  and  with  regret  perceive 

Forsaken,  or  through  folly  not  enjoy'd." 

Indeed,  the  great  and  rare  art  of  enjoying  life,  in  its  purest  and 
sublimest  delights,  is  what  this  beneficent  poet  appears  most  anx- 
ious to  communicate,  and  impress  on  the  heart  and  soul  of  his 
reader.  Witness  that  most  exquisite  passage  of  the  Task,  where 
he  teaches  the  pensive  student,  who  contemplates  the  face  of 
earth,  to  survey  the  works  of  his  Maker  with  a  tender  transport 
of  filial  exultation. 

"  He  looks  abroad  into  the  varied  field 
Of  Nature,  and  though  poor,  perhaps,  compar'd 
With  those  whose  mansions  glitter  in  his  sight, 
Calls  the  delightful  scen'ry  all  his  own. 
His  are  the  mountains,  and  the  vallies  his, 
And  the  resplendent  rivers :    His  to  enjoy, 
\\"ith  a  propriety  that  none  can  feel. 
But  who,  with  filial  confidence  inspir'd, 
C.'in  lift  to  heaven  an  unpresumptuous  eye, 
And  smiling  saj' — My  Father  made  them  all  I 
Are  they  not  his  by  a  peculiar  right, 
And  by  an  emphasis  of  ijit'rest  his, 


LIFE  OF  CO\\T»ER.  U7 

Wliose  eye  they  fill  with  tears  of  holy  joy, 
Whose  heart  with  praise,  and  whose  exalted  mind 
With  worthy  thoughts  of  that  unwearied  love 
That  plann'd  and  bui't,  and  still  upholds  a  world 
So  cloath'd  with  beauty  for  rebellious  man  ? 
Yes — ye  may  fill  your  gamers,  ye  that  reap 
The  loaded  soil,  and  ye  may  waste  much  good 
In  senseless  riot ;  but  ye  will  not  find 
In  feast,  or  in  the  chace,  in  song,  or  dance, 
A  liberty  like  his,  who,  unimpeach'd 
Of  usurpation,  and  to  no  man's  wrong. 
Appropriates  nature  as  his  Father's  work, 
And  has  a  richer  use  of  yours  than  you." 

I  believe  the  happiest  hours  of  Cowper's  life  were  those  in  wliicb 
he  was  engaged  on  this  noble  poem ;  and  as  his  happiness  was,  in  a 
great  measure,  the  fruit  of  his  occupation,  it  is  the  more  to  be 
regretted  that  some  incident,  propitious  to  poetry,  did  not  engage 
his  active  spirit  a  second  time  hi  the  construction  of  a  great  origi- 
nal work. 

There  was  a  time,  indeed,  when  his  zealous  and  much  regarded 
friend  and  neighbour,  Mr.  Greatheed,  most  kindly  exhorted  him 
to  such  an  enterprise :  an  anecdote  that  I  seize  this  opportunity 
of  i-ecording  in  the  words  of  that  gentleman. 

"  Homer  being  completely  translated  and  committed  to  the 
press,  I  endeavoured  to  urge  upon  Mr.  Cowper's  attention  the  idea 
of  a  British  epic,  and  would  have  recommended  to  him  the  reign 
of  Alfred,  the  brightest  ornament  of  the  English  throne,  as  one  of 
the  most  eventful  periods  of  our  history.  He  discovered  reluct- 
ance to  the  undertaking,  and,  to  the  best  of  my  recollection,  prin- 
cipally oI)jected  to  the  difficulties  attending  the  introduction  of  a 
suitable  machinery  under  the  Christian  dispensation.  He  pointed 
out  the  absurdities  of  Tasso,  and  the  deficiency  of  Glover  in  this 
respect,  and  thought  that  Milton  had  occupied  the  only  epic  ground 
fit  for  a  Christian  poet." 

Cowper  would  probably  ha^-e  thought  otherwise  on  such  a  sug- 
gestion, had  it  been  pressed  upon  his  fancy  in  a  more  propitious 
season  of  his  life,  before  his  spirit  was  harassed  by  many  troubles 
Avhich  attended  him  during  the  latter  years  that  he  bestowed  upon 
Homer,  and  al)ove  all,  by  the  enfeebled  health  of  Mrs.  Unwin,  to 
which  he  gratefully  devoted  such  incessant  attention  as  must  have 
inevitably  impeded  any  great  mental  enterprise,  even  if  his  fervid 
imagination  had  been  happily  struck  with  any  less  obvious  and 
more  promising  subject  for  epic  song.    Had  he  engaged  in  such  an 


148  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

enterprise  at  a  favourable  season  of  his  life,  I  am  persuaded  he 
would  have  enriched  the  literature  of  his  country  with  a  composi- 
tion more  valuable  than  his  version  of  Homer,  allowing  to  that 
version  as  high  a  value  as  translation  can  boast. 

He  possessed  all  the  requisites  for  the  happiest  accomplishment 
of  the  most  arduous  original  work — fancy,  judgment,  and  taste ; 
all  of  the  highest  order,  and  in  union  so  admirable  that  they  height- 
ened the  powers  of  each  other.  He  was  singularly  exempt  from 
the  two  great  sources  of  literary,  and,  indeed,  of  moral  imperfec- 
tions— negligence  and  aflFectation.  From  the  first  he  was  secured 
by  a  modest  sense  of  his  own  abilities,  united  to  a  spirit  of  appli- 
cation, like  the  alacrity  of  Csesar — 

"  Nil  actum  reputans,  si  quid  supei^sset  agendum." 

From  affectation  of  every  kind  he  was  perpetually  preserved  by 
a  majestic  simplicity  of  mind,  never  seduced  by  false  splendour, 
and  most  feelingly  alive  to  all  the  graces  of  truth.  But  with  the 
rarest  combination  of  different  faculties  for  the  successful  execu-» 
tion  of  any  great  poetical  work,  his  tender  and  modest  genius, 
sublime  as  it  was,  wanted  the  animating  voice  of  friendship  to 
raise  it  into  confident  exertion.  The  Task  would  not  have  been 
written  without  the  inspiring  voice  of  Lady  Austen.  The  solemn 
and  sage  spirit  of  Numa  required  the  inspiration  of  his  Egeria* 

— —  Sic  sacra  Numje  ritusque  colendos 
Mitis  Aricino  dictabat  nympha  sub  antro. 

The  great  pleasure  that  Cowper  felt  in  the  conversation  of  ac- 
complished women,  inspired  him  with  that  delicate  vivacity  with 
which  he  was  accustomed  to  express  his  gratitude  for  a  variety  of 
little  occasional  presents  that  he  received  from  his  female  friends. 

Dr.  Johnson  has  said  surlily  and  unjustly  of  Milton,  that  '•  he 
never  learnt  the  art  of  doing  little  things  with  grace."  But  in  truth, 
poets  who  possess  such  exquisite  feelings,  and  such  powers  of  lan- 
guage, as  belonged  to  Milton  and  to  Cowper,  can  hardly  fail  to  give 
elegance  and  grace  to  their  poetical  trifles,  whenever  affection 
leads  them  to  trifle  in  verse.  Cowper,  whose  sensations  of  grati- 
tude were  singularly  strong,  was  remarkably  happy  in  those 
sprightly  poetical  compliments  which  he  often  addi-essed  to  ladies, 
in  return  for  some  highly  Avelcome,  though  trivial  gift,  endeared 
to  his  affectionate  spirit  by  his  regard  for  the  giver.  To  illustrate 
this  very  amiable  part  of  his  character,  I  shall  here  insert  a  few 
of  these  animated  and  graceful  trifles. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  141 


To  my  Cousin  ANNE  BODHAM, 

On  receiving'  from  her  a  J\i''et-ivork  Purse  7nade  by  herself. 
May  4,  1793. 

My  gentle  Anne,  whom  heretofore, 
Wlien  I  was  young,  and  thou  no  moi'e 

Than  plaything  for  a  nurse, 
I  danced  and  fondled  on  my  knee, 
A  kitten  both  in  size  and  glee ! 

I  thank  thee  for  my  Purse ; 

Gold  pays  the  worth  of  all  things  here; 
But  not  of  love; — that  gem's  too  dear 

For  richest  rogues  to  win  it ; 
I,  therefore,  as  a  proof  of  love, 
Esteem  thy  present  far  above 

The  best  things  kept  within  it. 


To  Mrs.  KESfG, 

On  her  kind  Present  to  the  Author — a  Patch-work  Counterpane 
of  her  own  7naking. 

The  bard,  if  e'er  he  feel  at  all, 
Must  sure  be  quicken 'd  by  a  call 

Both  on  his  heart  and  head, 
To  pay,  with  tuneful  thanks,  the  cave 
And  kindness  of  a  lady  fair, 

Who  deigns  to  deck  his  bed. 

A  bed  like  this,  in  ancient  time. 
On  Ida's  barren  top  sublime, 

(As  Homer's  epic  shows) 
Composed  of  sweetest  vernal  flow'rs, 
Without  the  aid  of  sun  or  show'rs, 

For  Jove  and  Juno  rose. 

Less  beautiful,  however  gay, 

Is  that,  which  in  the  scorching  day 

Receives  the  weary  swain  ; 
Who,  laying  his  long  scythe  aside, 
Sleeps  on  some  bank,  with  daisies  pied, 

'Till  rous'd  to  toil  again. 


%S^  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

What  labours  of  the  loom  I  see  I 
Looms  numberless  have  groan'd  for  me : 

Should  ev'ry  maiden  come 
To  scramble  for  the  patch  that  bears 
The  impress  of  the  robe  she  wears, 

The  bell  would  toll  for  some. 

And  O !  what  havoc  would  ensue  ! 
This  bright  display  of  ev'iy  hue 

All  in  a  moment  fled  1 
As  if  a  storm  should  strip  the  bowers 
Of  all  their  tendrils,  leaves,  and  flowers, 

Each  pocketing  a  shred. 

Thanks,  then,  to  ev'ry  gentle  fair 
Who  will  not  come  to  pick  me  bare 

As  bird  of  borrow 'd  feather  ; 
And  thanks  to  one,  above  them  all. 
The  gentle  fair  of  Pirtenhall, 

Who  put  THE  WHOLE  TOGETHER. 


GRATITUDE. 

Addressed  to  Lady  HeskeTU, 

This  cap,  that  so  stately  appears, 

With  ribbon-bound  tassel  on  high, 
Which  seems,  by  the  crest  that  it  rears, 

Ambitious  of  brushing  the  sky : 
This  cap  to  my  cousin  I  owe, 

She  gave  it,  and  gave  me  beside, 
Wreath 'd  into  an  elegant  bow, 

The  ribbon  with  which  it  is  tied. 

Th^s  wheel-footed  studying  chair, 

Contriv'd  both  for  toil  and  repose, 
Wide-elbow'd,  and  wadded  with  hair, 

In  which  I  both  scribble  and  doze, 
Bright-studded  to  dazzle  the  eye3. 

And  rival  in  lustre  of  that. 
In  which,  or  astronomy  lies, 

Fair  Cassiopeia  sat. 


LIFE  OF  COWTER.  151 


These  carpets,  so  soft  to  the  foot, 

Caledonia's  traffic  and  pride, 
Oh  spare  them,  ye  knights  of  the  boot  I 

E?^cap'd  from  a  cross-country  ride  ! 
This  table  and  mirror  within, 

Secure  fi-om  collision  and  dust, 
At  which  I  oft  shave  cheek  and  chin, 

And  periwig  nicely  adjust. 

This  moveable  structure  of  shelves, 

For  its  beauty  admired  and  its  use, 
And  charged  with  octavos  and  twelves, 

The  gayest  I  had  to  produce. 
Where,  flaming  in  scarlet  and  gold, 

My  poems  enchanted  I  view. 
And  hope,  in  due  time,  to  behold 

My  Iliad  and  Odyssey  too. 

This  china,  that  decks  the  alcove. 

Which  here  people  call  a  beaufette. 
But  what  the  gods  call  it  above 

Has  ne'er  been  reveal'd  to  us  yet: 
These  curtains,  that  keep  the  room  warm, 

Or  cool,  as  the  season  demands  ; 
Those  stoves,  that,  for  pattern  and  form, 

Seem  tlie  labour  of  Mulciber's  hands. 

All  these  are  not  half  that  I  owe 

To  one  from  our  earliest  youth, 
To  me  ever  ready  to  show 

Benignity,  friendship,  and  truth : 
For  Time,  the  destroyer,  declared, 

And  foe  of  our  perishing  kind, 
If  even  her  face  he  has  spared. 

Much  less  could  he  alter  her  mind. 

Thus  compass'd  about  with  the  goods 

And  chattels  of  leisure  and  ease, 
I  indulge  my  poetical  moods 

In  many  such  fancies  as  these  : 
And  fancies  I  fear  they  will  seem, 

Poets'  goods  are  not  often  so  fine ; 
The  poets  will  swear  that  I  dream, 

VA'hcu  I  siing  of  tlie  splendour  of  luiae. 


152  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

Though  Cowper  could  occasionally  trifle  in  rhyme,  for  the  sake 
of  amusing  his  friends,  with  an  affectionate  and  endearing  gaiety, 
he  appears  most  truly  himself  when  he  exerts  his  poetical  talents 
for  the  higher  purpose  of  consoling  the  afflicted.  Witness  the  fol- 
lowing epistle,  composed  at  the  request  of  Lady  Austen,  to  con- 
sole a  particular  friend  of  hers.  Twenty-five  letters,  written  by 
Mrs.  Billacoys,  the  lady  to  whom  the  poem  is  addressed,  were  in- 
serted in  an  early  volume  of  the  Theological  Miscellany,  in  which 
tlie  poem  also  appeared.  Mr.  Bull  has  annexed  it  to  Cowper's 
translations  from  the  spiritual  songs  of  Madame  Guion,  but  I  wil- 
lingly embrace  the  opportunity  of  re-printing  it  in  this  volume, 
fi'om  a  copy  coi-rected  by  the  author,  in  the  pleasing  persuasion 
that  it  must  prove  to  all  religious  readers,  acquainted  >vith  afflic- 
tion, a  lenient  charm  of  very  powerful  effect. 


EPISTLE  TO  A  LADY  IN  FRANCE. 

A  Person  of  great  Piety ^  and  much  afflicted. 

Madam  !  a  stranger's  purpose  in  these  lays 
Is  to  congratulate,  and  not  to  praise  ; 
To  give  the  creature  the  Creator's  due, 
Were  guilt  in  me,  and  an  offence  to  you. 
From  man  to  man,  and  e'en  to  woman  paid. 
Praise  is  the  medium  of  a  knavish  trade, 
A  coin  by  craft  for  folly's  use  design 'd, 
Spurious,  and  only  current  with  the  blind. 

The  path  of  sorrow,  and  that  path  alone, 
Leads  to  the  land  whei-e  sorrow  is  unknown  ; 
No  trav'ller  ever  reach'd  that  blest  abode. 
Who  found  not  thorns  and  briars  on  his  road* 
The  world  may  dance  along  the  flowery  plain. 
Cheer 'd  as  they  go  by  many  a  sprightly  strain, 
Where  nature  has  her  yielding  mosses  spread, 
V,''ith  unshod  feet,  and  yet  unharm'd,  they  tread, 
Admonish 'd,  scorn  the  caution,  and  the  friend. 
Bent  all  on  pleasure,  heedless  of  its  end. 
But  He  who  knev/  what  human  hearts  would  prove, 
How  slow  to  learn  the  dictates  of  his  love  ; 
That  hard  by  nature,  and  of  stubborn  will, 
A  life  of  ease  would  make  them  harder  still ; 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  loi 

In  pity  to  a  chosen  fcAV,  design'd 
T'  escape  the  common  ruin  of  their  kind, 
■  Call'd  for  a  cloud  to  darken  all  their  years, 
And  said — Go  spend  them  in  the  vale  of  tears ! 

Oil  balmy  gales  of  soul-reviving  air  ! 
Oh  salutary  streams  that  murmur  there  ! 
These  flowing  from  the  fount  of  grace  above, 
Those  breath'd  from  lips  of  everlasting  love ! 
The  flinty  soil,  indeed,  their  feet  annoys. 
Chill  blasts  of  trouble  nip  their  springing  joys. 
An  envious  woi-ld  will  interpose  its  frown, 
To  mar  delights  superior  to  its  own. 
And  many  a  pang,  experienc'd  still  within. 
Reminds  them  of  their  hated  inmate,  sin  ! 
But  ills  of  every  shape,  of  every  name, 
Transform'd  to  blessings,  miss  their  cruel  aim  ; 
And  every  moment's  calm,  that  soothes  the  breast, 
Is  given  in  earnest  of  eternal  rest. 

All !    be  not  sad,  although  thy  lot  be  cast 
Far  from  the  flock,  and  in  a  boundless  waste ; 
No  shepherds'  tents  within  thy  view  appear, 
But  the  chief  Shepherd  even  there  is  near : 
Thy  tender  sorrows  and  thy  plaintive  strain 
Flow  in  a  foreign  land,  but  not  in  vain. 
Thy  tears  all  issue  from  a  source  divine. 
And  every  drop  bespeaks  a  Saviour  thine. 

So  once,  in  Gideon's  fleece,  the  dews  were  found, 
And  di'ought  on  all  the  drooping  flocks  around.* 


It  may  be  obsei'ved,  to  the  honour  of  the  poet,  that  his  extreme 
shyness  and  dislike  of  addressing  an  absolute  stranger  did  not 
preclude  him  from  a  free  and  happy  use  of  his  mental  powei-s, 
when  he  had  a  prospect  of  comforting  the  distressed.  His  diffi- 
dence was  often  wonderfully  great,  but  his  humanity  was  greater. 

Diffident  as  Cowper  was  by  nature,  though  a  poet,  he  wanted 
not  the  becoming  resolution  to  defend  his  poetical  opinions,  when 
lie  felt  them  to  be  just ;  particularly  on  the  structure  of  English 
verse,  which  he  had  examined  with  the  eye  of  a  master.  As  a 
proof  of  his  resolution,  I  transcribe,  with  pleasure,  a  passage  from 
one  of  his  earUest  letters  to  his  booksellei",  Mr.  Johnson. 

VOL.  II.  X 


154  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

It  happened  that  some  accidental  reviser  of  the  manuscript  had 
taken  the  liberty  to  alter  a  line  in  a  poem  of  Cowper's.  This, 
liberty  drew  from  the  offended  poet  the  following  very  just  and 
animated  remonstrance,  which  I  am  anxious  to  preserve,  because 
it  elucidates,  with  great  felicity  of  expression,  his  deUberate  ideas 
on  English  versification. 

"  I  did  not  write  tlie  line,  that  has  been  tampered  with,  hastily, 
or  without  due  attention  to  the  construction  of  it ;  and  what  ap- 
peared to  me  its  only  merit  is,  in  its  present  state,  entirely  annihi- 
lated. 

"  I  know  that  the  ears  of  modern  verse-writers  are  delicate  to 
an  excess,  and  their  readers  are  troubled  with  the  same  squeam- 
ishness  as  themselves  :  so  diat  if  a  line  do  not  run  as  smooth  as 
quicksilver,  they  are  offended.  A  critic  of  the  present  day  serves 
a  poem  as  a  cook  serves  a  dead  turkey,  when  she  fastens  the  legs 
of  it  to  a  post,  and  draws  out  all  the  sinews.  For  this  we  may 
thank  Pope  :  but  unless  we  could  imitate  him  in  the  closeness  and 
compactness  of  his  expression,  as  well  as  in  the  smoothness  of  his 
numbers,  we  had  better  drop  the  imitation,  which  serves  no  other 
purpose  than  to  emasculate  and  weaken  all  we  write.  Give  me  a 
manly  rough  line,  with  a  deal  of  meaning  in  it,  rather  than  a  whole 
poem  full  of  musical  periods,  that  have  nothing  but  their  oily 
smoothness  to  recommend  them. 

"  I  have  said  thus  much,  as  I  hinted  in  the  beginning,  because  I 
have  just  finished  a  much  longer  poem  than  the  last,  which  our 
common  friend  will  receive  by  the  same  messenger  that  has 
charge  of  this  letter.  In  that  poem  there  are  many  lines  which 
an  ear  so  nice  as  the  gentleman's  who  made  the  above  men- 
tioned alteration  would  undoubtedly  condemn,  and  j^et  (if  I  may 
be  permitted  to  say  it)  they  cannot  be  made  smoother  witliout  be- 
ing the  worse  for  it.  There  is  a  roughness  on  a  plumb  which  no- 
body that  understands  fruit  would  rub  off,  though  the  plumb  would 
be  much  more  polished  Avithout  it.  But  lest  I  tire  you,  I  will  only 
add,  that  I  wish  you  to  guard  me  for  the  future  front  all  such 
meddling  ;  assuring  you  that  I  always  write  as  smoothly  as  I  can, 
but  that  I  never  did,  never  will,  sacrifice  the  spirit  or  sense  of  a 
passage  to  the  sound  of  it." 

In  showing  widi  what  proper  spirit  the  pcet  could  occasionally 
vindicate  his  own  verse,  let  me  observe,  that  although  he  fre- 
quently speaks  in  his  letters  with  humorous  Jisperity  concerning 
critics,  no  man  could  be  more  willing  to  receive,  with  becoming 
modesty  and  gratitude,  the  friendly  assistance  of  just  and  tempe- 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  155 

rate  criticism.  Some  proofs  of  this  humilitj^,  so  laudable,  if  not 
uncommon  in  poets  of  great  powers,  I  sliall  seize  this  opportunity 
of  producing,  in  a  few  extracts  from  a  series  of  the  author's  letters 
to  his  bookJieller. 

Weston,  Feb,  11,  1790. 
Dear  Sir, 

I  am  very  sensibly  obliged  by  the  remarks 
of  Mr.  Fuseli,  and  beg  that  you  will  tell  him  so ;  they  afford  me 
opportunities  of  improvement  which  I  shall  not  neglect.  When 
he  shall  see  -the  press-copy,  he  will  be  convinced  of  this,  and  will 
be  convinced  likewise,  that,  smart  as  he  sometimes  is,  he  spares  me 
often  when  I  have  no  mercy  on  myself.  He  will  see,  in  short,  al- 
most a  new  translation.  *  *  *  j  assure  you  faith- 
fiilly,  that  whatever  my  faults  may  be,  to  be  easily  or  hastily  satis- 
fied with  what  I  have  written  is  not  one  of  them. 

Seju.  r,  1790. 
It  grieves  me  that,  after  all,  I  am  obliged 
to  go  into  public  without  the  whole  advantage  of  I\Ir.  Fuseli's  ju- 
dicious strictures.  I\Iy  only  consolation  is,  that  I  have  not  forfeited 
them  by  my  own  impatience.  Five  years  are  no  small  portion  of 
a  man's  life,  especially  at  the  latter  end  of  it,  and  in  those  five 
years,  being  a  man  of  almost  no  engagements,  I  have  done  more 
in  the  way  of  hard  work  than  most  could  have  done  in  twice 
the  number.  I  beg  you  to  present  my  compliments  to  Mr.  Fuseli, 
with  many  and  sincere  thanks  for  tlie  services  that  his  own  more 
important  occupations  would  allow  him  to  render  me. 


It  is  a  singular  spectacle  for  those  who  love  to  contemplate  the 
progress  of  social  arts,  to  observe  a  foreigner,  who  has  raised  him- 
self to  high  rank  in  the  arduous  profession  of  a  painter,  correcting, 
and  thanked  for  correcting  the  chief  poet  of  England  in  his  English 
version  of  Homer. 

From  tlie  series  of  letters  now  before  me,  I  cannot  resist  the 
temptation  of  transcribing  two  more  passages,  because  they  dis- 
play the  disposition  of  Cowper  in  a  very  amiable  point  of  view, 
'I'he  first  relates  to  INIr.  Newton — the  second  to  Mr.  Johnson  him- 
self. 

Wcatcn,  Oct.  o,  1790. 

Mr.  Ncwt>^ii  having  again  requested  that 

the  preface  •which  he  Avrote  for  my  first  volume  may  be  prefixed  t« 


"m  LIFE  OF  COVVPER. 

i 

it,  I  am  desirous  to  gratify  him  in  a  particular  that  so  emphatically 
bespeaks  his  friendship  for  me ;  and  should  my  books  see  another 
edition,  shall  be  obliged  to  you  if  you  will  add  it  accordingly. 

I  beg  that  you  will  not  suifer  your  rever- 
ence, either  for  Homer  or  his  translator,  to  check  your  continual 
examinations.  I  never  knew,  with  certainty,  till  now,  that  the 
marginal  strictures  I  found  in  the  Task-proofs  were  yours.  The 
justness  of  them,  and  the  benefit  I  derived  from  them,  are  fresh 
in  my  memory,  and  I  doubt  not  that  their  utility  will  be  the  same 
in  the  present  instance. 
Weston,  Oct.  30,  1790. 

I  am  anxious  to  preserve  this  singular  anecdote,  as  it  is  honour- 
able both  to  the  modest  poet,  and  to  his  intelligent  bookseller. 


But  let  me  recall  the  reader's  attention  to  the  letter,  in  which 
the  poet  delivered  so  forcibly  his  own  ideas  of  English  versifica- 
tion. 

This  letter  leads  me  to  suggest  a  reason  why  some  readers 
imagine  that  the  rhyme  of  Cowper  is  not  equal  to  his  blank  verse. 
Their  idea  arises  from  his  not  copying  the  melody  of  Pope:  but 
from  this  he  deviated  by  design,  and  his  character  of  Pope,  in  the 
Poem  of  Table-Talk,  may,  when  added  to  this  letter,  completely 
unfold  to  us  his  reasons  for  doing  so.  The  lines  to  which  I  allude 
are  these : 

Then  Pope,  as  harmony  itself  exact, 

In  verse  well  disciplin'd,  complete,  compact, 

Gave  virtue  and  morality  a  grace. 

That,  quite  eclipsing  pleasure's  painted  face. 

Levied  a  tax  of  wonder  and  applause. 

E'en  on  the  fools  that  trampled  on  their  laws : 

But  he  (his  musical  finesse  was  such. 

So  nice  his  ear,  so  delicate  his  touch) 

Made  poetry  a  mere  mechanic  art, 

And  every  warbler  has  his  tune  by  heart. 

Cowper  conceived  that  Pope,  by  adhering  too  closely  to  the  use 
of  pure  Iambic  feet  in  his  verse,  deprived  himself  of  an  advantage 
to  be  gained  by  a  more  liberal  admission  of  other  feet,  and  parti, 
cularly  Spondees,  which,  according  to  Cowper's  idea,  have  a  very 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  1ST 

happ}'  eflFect  in  giving  variety,  dignity,  and  force.  He  exempli- 
fies his  idea  by  exclaiming,  in  the  following  couplet  of  the  same 
poem, 

Give  me  the  line  that  ploughs  its  stately  course 
Like  a  proud  swan,  conquering  the  stream  by  forpe. 

It  is,  however,  remarkable,  that  Cowper,  in  his  Poem  on  the  Na- 
tivitv,  from  the  French  of  Madame  Guion,  seems  to  have  chosen 
the  style  of  Pope,  which,  on  other  occasions,  he  had  rather  tried  to 
avoid.  His  versification  in  the  poem  just  mentioned,  affords  a 
complete  proof  that,  in  rhyme,  as  in  blank  verse,  he  could  at  once 
be  easy,  forcible,  and  melodious. 

Churchill  had  before  objected  to  an  excess  of  unvaried  excel- 
lence in  the  verses  of  Pope :  an  objection  that  appears  rather 
fastidious  than  reasonable.  Happy  the  poet  whose  antagonist 
can  only  say  of  his  language,  that  it  is  too  musical,  and  of  his 
fancy,  that  it  is  too  much  under  the  guidance  of  reason  !  Such  are 
the  charges  by  which  even  scholars  and  critics,  of  acknowledged 
taste  and  good  nature,  have,  from  the  influence  of  accidental  pre- 
judice, endeavoured  to  lessen  the  poetical  eminence  of  Pope ;  a 
poet  remarkably  unfortunate  in  his  numerous  biographers:  for 
Ruffhead,  whom  Warburton  employed  in  a  task,  which  gratitude 
might  have  taught  him  to  execute  better  himself,  is  neglected  as 
dull:  Johnson,  though  he  nobly  and  eloquently  vindicates  the  dig- 
nity of  the  poet,  }et  betrays  a  perpetual  inclination  to  render  him 
contemptible  as  a  man  :  and  Warton,  though  by  nature  one  of  the 
most  candid  and  liberal  of  critics,  continues,  as  a  biographer,  to 
indulge  that  prejudice  which  had  early  induced  him,  in  his  popular 
Essay  on  this  illustrious  poet,  to  endeavour  to  sink  him  a  little  in 
the  scale  of  poetical  renown :  not,  I  believe,  from  any  envious  mo- 
tive,  but  as  an  affectionate  compliment  to  hi3  friend  Young,  tho 
patron  to  whom  he  inscribed  his  Essay. 

Of  this  continued  prejudice,  which  this  good  natured  critic  was 
himself  very  far  from  perceiving,  he  exhibits  a  I'emarkablc  proof 
in  his  Life  of  Pope,  by  the  following  facetious  severity  on  the  trans- 
lation of  Homer. 

"  No  two  things  can  be  so  unlike  as  the  Iliad  of  Homer  and 
the  Iliad  of  Pope :  to  colour  the  images,  to  point  the  sentences,  to 
lavish  Ovidian  graces  on  the  simple  Grecian,  is  to  put  a  bag-wig 
on  Mr.  Townley's  fine  busto  of  the  venerable  old  bard." 

This  senter.ce  has  all  the  sprightly  pleasantry  of  my  amijble  old 
friend :  but  to  prove  that  it  is  critically  unjust,  the  reader  has  only 
to  observe  that  Pope  is  very  fur  from  having  produced  that  ludicrous 


ISS  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

effect  which  the  comparison  of  the  critic  supposes.  Spectatori 
must  laugh,  indeed,  at  a  bust  of  Homer  enveloped  in  a  wig;  but  the 
reader  has  not  a  disposition  to  laughter  in  reading  the  Iliad  of 
Pope.  On  tlie  contrary,  in  many,  many  passages,  where  it  devi- 
ates widely  from  the  original,  a  reader  of  taste  and  candour  ad- 
mires both  the  dexterity  and  the  dignity  of  the  translator ;  and  if 
he  allows  the  version  to  be  unfaithful,  yet,  with  Mr.  Twining,  (the 
accomplished  translator  of  Aristotle,  who  has  justly  and  grace- 
fully applied  an  expressive  Latin  verse  to  this  glorious  translation, 
so  bitterly  branded  with  the  epithet  unfaithful)  he  tenderly  ex- 
claims, 

"  Perfida,  sed  quamvis  perfida,  cara  tamen." 

I  have  been  induced,  b}^  a  sense  of  what  is  due  to  the  great  works 
of  real  genius,  to  take  the  piirt  of  Pope  against  the  lively  injustice 
of  a  departed  friend,  for  whose  literary  talents,  and  for  whose  so- 
cial character,  I  still  retain  the  sincerest  regard.  The  deliuht 
and  the  improvement  derived  from  such  noble  vvrorks  as  the  Ho- 
mer of  Pope,  ought  to  guard  every  scholar  against  any  partialities 
of  friendship  that  can  render  him  blind  to  the  predominant  merits, 
or  severe  to  the  petty  imperfections  of  such  a  work.  Predominant 
merits  and  petty  imperfections  are  certainly  to  be  found  in  the 
translation  of  Pope.  These  are  temperately  and  judiciously  dis- 
played in  the  liberal  essay  of  that  gentle  and  amiable  critic,  Spense, 
©n  the  Odyssey ;  who,  though  he  was  rather  partial  to  blank  verse, 
yet  regarded  Pope's  Homer  as  a  work  entitled  to  great  admira- 
tion. It  is,  indeed,  a  work  so  truly  admirable,  that  I  should  be 
sorry  if  the  more  faithful  version  of  my  favourite  friend  could 
materially  injure  the  honour  of  its  author :  but  between  Pope  and 
CoAV])er  there  is  no  contest :  "  'I'hey  are  performers  on  different 
instruments,"  as  Cowper  has  very  properly  remarked  himself,  in 
the  preface  to  his  own  translation. 

We  may  apply  to  the  two  translators,  therefore,  tlie  compre- 
hensive Latin  words  that  Gibbon  applied  to  two  eminent  lawyers, 
"  Magis pares^  quani  similes;"  but  of  the  two  translators  it  may 
be  added,  that  each  has  attained  such  a  degree  of  excellence  in 
the  mode  he  adopted,  as  will  probably  remain  unsurpassed  for 
ever.  Instead,  therefore,  of  endeavouring  to  decide  which  is  en- 
titled to  the  greater  portion  of  praise,  a  reader,  Avho  has  derived 
great  pleasure  from  both,  may  rather  wish  (for  the  embellishment 
and  honour  of  the  English  language)  that  it  may  exhibit  a  double 
version  of  every  great  ancient  poet,  perfectly  equal  in  spirit  and 
beauty  to  the  Homers  of  Pope  and  of  Cowper.  My  impartial  es- 
teem for  the  merits  of  these  two  pre-eminent  translators  had  al« 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  156 

most  tempted  me  to  introduce  in  this  composition  a  minute  display 
of  their  alternate  successes  and  failures  in  many  most  striking  pas- 
sages of  Homer ;  but,  on  reflection,  it  appears  to  me,  that  such  a 
comparison,  if  fairly  and  extensively  conducted,  would  form  an 
episode  too  large  for  the  body  of  my  work,  and  the  spirit  of  my  de- 
parted friend  seemed  to  admonish  me  against  it,  in  the  following 
Tvords  of  his  Grecian  favourite  : 

"  Neither  praise  me  much,  nor  blame, 
For  these  arc  Grecians  in  whose  ears  thou  speak'st, 
And  know  me  well." 

Cc7i'/!e7-'s  Homer's  Iliad,  10. 

I  will  therefore  confine  myself  to  the  general  result  of  such  a 
comparison,  and  I  am  persuaded  that  all  unprejudiced  scholars, 
who  may  amuse  themselves  bv  pursuing  the  comparison,  will  find 
the  result  to  be  tliis :  that  both  the  English  poets  have  rendered 
noble  justice  to  their  original,  taken  altogether;  that,  in  separate 
parts,  each  translator  has  frequently  sunk  beneath  him,  and  each, 
in  their  happier  moments,  surpassed  the  model  which  they  endea- 
voured to  copy. 

Pope  had  partners  in  the  latter  portion  of  his  work :  Cowper 
accomplished  his  mighty  labour  by  his  own  exertions :  and  he 
seems  to  have  taken  an  honest  pleasure  in  recording,  with  his 
own  hand,  the  time  and  the  pains  that  he  bestowed  on  his 
translation. 

In  the  copy  of  Clarke's  Homer,  which  he  valued  particularly 
as  the  gift  of  his  friend,  Mr.  Rose,  he  inserted  the  following  me- 
morandum. 

"  My  translation  of  the  Iliad  I  began  on  the  twenty-first  day  of 
November,  in  the  year  17'84,  and  finished  the  translation  of  the 
Odyssey  on  the  twenty-fifth  day  of  August,  1790.  During  eight 
months  of  this  time  I  was  hindered  by  indisposition,  so  that  I  have 
been  occupied  in  the  work,  on  the  whole,  five  years  and  one 
month. Wm.  Cowper. 

"Mem:  I  gave  the  work  another  revisal  while  it  was  in  the 
press,  which  I  finished  March  4,  1791." 

When  we  add  to  this  account  all  the  time  which  he  gave  to  pre- 
parations for  his  second  edition,  it  will  hardly  be  hyperbolical  ta 


ICO  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

say,  that  this  deeply  studied  version  of  Homer  was,  like  the  siege 
of  Troy,  a  work  of  ten  years.  Nor  will  this  time  appear  won- 
derful, when  we  recollect  how  determined  Cowper  was  to  be  as 
minutely  faithful  as  possible  to  the  exact  sense  of  his  original.  The 
following  passage  from  one  of  his  letters  to  Mr.  Park  will  show 
how  much  he  gratified  his  own  mind  by  such  scrupulous  fidelity. 
In  thanking  his  friend  for  a  present  of  Chapman's  Iliad,  he  says:  . 

"  Wesson,  July  15,  1793. 
"  I  have  consulted  him  in  one  passage  of 
some  difficulty,  and  find  him  giving  a  sense  of  his  own,  not  at  all- 
warranted  by  the  words  of  Homer.  Pope  sometimes  does  this, 
and  sometimes  omits  the  difficult  part  entirely.  I  can  boast  of  hav- 
ing done  neither,  though  it  has  cost  me  infinite  pains  to  exempt 
myself  from  the  necessity." 

The  late  Mr.  Wakefield,  in  re-publishing  Pope's  Homer,  has 
mentioned  Cowper's  superior  fidelity  to  his  original  with  the  libe- 
ral praise  of  a  scholar ;  but  he  falls,  I  think,  into  injudicious  se- 
verity on  the  structure  of  his  verse — a  severity  the  more  remark- 
able, as  he  warmly  censures  Boswell  for  unfeeling  fietulance  and 
insolent  dogmatism^  in  speaking  of  Cowper's  translation.     Mr. 
Wakefield,  though  a  man  of  extensive  learning  and  acute  sensi- 
bility, appears  to  me  in  some  measure  unjust  both  to  Cowper  and 
to  Pope.     He  labours  to  prove  that  Pope  v/as  miserably  defective 
in  the  knowledge  of  Greek,  and  questions  the  exactitude  of  Lord 
Bathurst's  testimony',  in  the  anecdote  that  seemed  to  vindicate  the 
translator's  acquaintance  with  the  original.     It  is  in  my  power  to 
strengthen  the  credibility  of  that  anecdote  by  a  circumstance  with- 
in my  oAvn  memory,  which  I  mention  with  pleasure,  to  refute  a 
stra'.ge  uncandid  supposition,  that  Pope  did  not  rea.d  himself  the 
Greek  which  he  profest  to  translate,  but  trusted  entirely  to  other 
translators.     Many  years  ago  I  had  in  my  hands  a  small  edition 
of  Homer,  (Greek,  without  Latin)  and  it  was  the  very  copy  that 
Pope  used  in  his  translation.     It  had  a  few  memorandums  in  his 
own  hand-writing,  ascertaining  the  lines  he  translated  on  such  and 
such  days.     I  might  have  bought  the  book  for  a  price  considerably 
above  its  usual  value,  but  I  was  at  the  time  unhappily  infected 
with  Warton's  prejudice  against  the  genius  of  Pope,  and  from  the 
influence  of  that  prejudice  I  failed  to  purchase  a  book  which,  "  on 
my  mended  judgment,  if  I  oflFend  not  to  say  it  is  mended,"  I  should 
have  rejoiced  to  acquire  by  doubling  the  price.     May  this  petty 
anecdote  be  a  warning  to  every  literary  )'cuth,  of  an  ardent  spirit, 
not  to  adopt  too  hastily  ideas  that  may  lessen  his  regard  for  such 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  161 

celeliratcd  wi'iters  as  time  and  experience  will  probably  endear  to 
his  more  cultivated  mind. 

It  is,  indeed,  a  prejudice  net  uncommon  in  the  litei*ary  world, 
that  little  respect  is  due  to  poetical  translators.  The  learned  and 
amiable  Jortin  says,  in  his  Life  of  Erasmus,  "  The  translating  of 
poets  into  other  languages,  and  into  \erse,  seems  to  be  an  occu- 
pation l>encath  a  good  poet;  a  work  in  which  there  is  much  labour 
and  little  honour." 

Jortin  was  led  to  this  idea  by  some  expressions  in  a  letter  from 
Erasmus  to  Ecbanus  Hessus,  who  translated  Homer  into  very  ani- 
mated Latin  verse.  As  that  translator  did  not  employ  a  living  lan- 
guage in  his  version  of  the  great  poet,  his  correspondent  might 
justly  apprehend  that  the  credit  of  his  work  would  not  be  answer- 
able to  its  laI)our.  But  surely  the  case  is  very  different,  when 
poets,  who  liave  gained  reputation  by  original  works  in  a  modern 
language,  devote  their  talents  to  make  their  countrymen,  learned 
or  unlearned,  easily  and  agreeably  intimate  with  the  poetical  fa- 
vourites of  the  ancient  world, 

Jortin  presumes  that  pecuniary  advahtage  must  be  a  primary 
moti\e  with  a  translator  of  extensive  works;  but  there  is  a  nobler 
incentive  to  such  composition,  and  one  that,  I  am  persuaded,  was 
very  forcibly  felt  both  by  Pope  and  Cowper:  I  mean  the  generous 
gratification  that  a  feeling  spirit  enjoys  in  a  fair  prospect  of  adding 
new  lustre  to  the  glory  of  a  favourite  author,  to  whom  he  has  been 
often  indebted  for  inexliaustible  delight.  He  labours,  indeed  ;  but 
he  frequently  labours 

"  Studio  fallente  laborem." 

Yet  the  magnitude  of  such  works  entitles  them  to  no  ordinary 
praise,  when  they  are  accomplished  with  considerable  success. 
Every  nation  ought  to  think  itself  highly  indebted  to  translators 
who  enrich  their  native  language  by  works  of  such  merit  as  the 
Homers  of  Pope  and  of  Cowper,  because  a  long  translation  to  the 
greatest  masters  of  poetical  diction  is  a  sort  of  fatiguing  dance 
performed  in  fetters.  It  certainly  was  so  to  Pope,  and  even  to 
Cowper,  whose  versification,  in  his  Homer,  though  so  excellent 
that  it  gives  to  his  translation  what  Johnson  calls  the  first  excel- 
lence of  a  translator,  "  to  be  read  with  pleasure  by  these  who 
know  not  Ijve  original,"  yet  seems  not,  in  every  part,  to  have  that 
exquisite  union  of  force,  freedom  and  fluency,  which  is  felt  so 
delightfully  through  all  the  books  of  the  Task.  It  is  there  that 
the  versification  of  Cowper  is  mcst  truly  Homeric,  that  it  ]K'i'pe- 
tually  displays  what  Piutarrh  describes  as  the  characteristic  of 
VOL.  11.  y 


i&i  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

Homer's  verse,  compared  with  that  of  Antimachus,  «  a  certain 
charm,  superadded  to  other  graces  and  power,  an  appearance  of 
having  been  executed  with  dexterous  facility."* 

Perhaps  of  all  poets,  ancient  and  modern.  Homer,  and  Cowper 
in  his  original  composition,  exhibit  this  charm  in  the  highest  de- 
gree. They  both  have  the  gift  of  speaking  in  verse,  as  if  poetry 
were  their  native  tongue. 

The  poetical  powers  of  the  latter  were  indeed  a  gift,  and  his 
use  of  them  was  worthy  of  the  veneration  which  he  felt  towards 
the  giver  of  every  good.  He  has  accomplished,  as  a  poet,  the  sub- 
limest  object  of  poetical  ambition — he  has  dissipated  the  general 
prejudice  that  held  it  hardly  possible  for  a  modern  author  to  suc- 
ceed in  sacred  poetry — he  has  proved  that  verse  and  devotion 
are  natural  allies^he  has  shown  that  true  poetical  genius  cannot  be 
more  honourably  or  more  delightfully  employed  than  in  diffusing 
through  the  heart  and  mind  of  man,  a  filial  affection  for  his  Ma- 
ker, with  a  firm  and  cheerful  trust  in  his  word.  He  has  sung  in  a 
strain  equal  to  the  subject,  the  blessed  Advent  of  universal  peace  ; 
and  perhaps  the  temperate  enthusiasm  of  friendship  may  not  ap- 
pear too  presumptuous  in  supposing  that  his  poetry  will  have  no 
inconsiderable  influence  in  preparing  the  world  for  a  consumma- 
tion so  devoutly  to  be  wished. 

Those  who  are  little  inclined  to  attribute  such  mighty  powers  to 
modern  verse  may  yet  allow,  that  the  more  the  works  of  Cowper 
are  read,  the  more  his  readers  will  find  reason  to  admire  the  va- 
riety and  the  extent,  the  graces  and  the  energy  of  his  literary  ta- 
lents. The  universal  admiration  excited  by  these  will  be  height- 
ened and  endeared,  to  the  friends  of  virtue,  by  the  obvious  reflec- 
tion, that  his  writings,  excellent  as  they  appear,  were  excelled  by 
the  gentleness,  the  benevolence,  and  the  sanctity  of  his  life.  To  the 
merits  of  such  a  life,  I  could  wish  that  a  more  early  intimacy  with 
my  departed  friend  had  enabled  me  to  render  more  ample  justice  ; 
but  affection  has  made  me  industrious  in  my  endeavours  to  supply, 
from  the  purest  sources  of  intelligence,  all  the  deficiency  of  my  per- 
sonal knowledge  ;  and  in  composing  this  cordial  tribute  to  a  man 
whose  history  is  so  universally  interesting,  my  chief  ambition  has 
been  to  deserve  the  approbation  of  his  pure  spirit,  who  appeared 
to  me  on  earth  among  the  most  amiable  of  earthly  friends,  and 

*    H  |U?y  A'JTi^xx^  '7roiYi(Ti^  X-Cik  to,  Aiowa-m  (^uyfCi^rifjLa.Ta.j  ruv  KoXo- 
(P«v*£t,'v  icyvv  £)^o)iToc.  KXi  Tovov  EHbEbta(7ju.svoi;  xai  xaraTTovotj  eojxe  :   ratj  ds  . 

Pliuarcli.  in  Tiraoleone. 


LIFE  OF  COWPER.  165 

tvhom  I  cherish  a  hvely  hope  of  beholding  in  a  state  of  happier  ex- 
istence, with  the  spirits  of  "  just  men  made  perfect."  Pardon  me, 
thou  tenderest  of  mortals,  if  I  have  praised  thee  with  a  warmth 
of  affection  that  might  appear  to  thy  diffident  natui-e  to  border  on 
excess.  I  am  not  conscious  that  I  have,  in  the  slightest  particular, 
over-stepped  the  modesty  of  truth ;  but,  lest  expressions  of  my  own 
should  have  a  more  questionable  shape,  I  will  close  this  imperfect, 
though  affectionate  memorial,  by  applying  to  thee  those  tender 
and  beautiful  verses  which  Cowley  (one  of  thy  favourite  poets) 
addressed  to  a  poetical  brother,  in  all  points,  perhaps,  and  assu- 
redly in  genius,  by  many  degrees,  thy  inferior. 

Long  did  the  Muses  banish 'd  slaves  abide, 

And  build  vain  pyramids  to  mortal  pride  : 

Like  Moses,  thou  (though  spells  and  charms  withstand) 

Hast  brought  them  nobly  home,  back  to  their  holy  land. 

Poet  and  Saint,  to  thee  are  justly  given. 

The  two  most  sacred  names  of  Earth  and  Heaven. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

It  has  been  once  more  my  lot,  during  the  process  of  printing  an 
extensive  work,  to  lose  a  friend  whom  I  had  anxiously  hoped  to 
please  with  a  sight  of  my  completed  publication.  I  allude  to  Lady 
Austen,  whose  name  is  justly  mentioned  with  honour  in  the  Life 
of  Cowper,  as  she  possessed  and  exerted  an  influence  so  happily 
favourable  to  the  genius  of  the  poet.  Before  I  began  the  present 
work,  I  had  the  pleasure  and  the  advantage  to  form  a  personal 
acquaintance  witli  this  lady  :  she  favoured  me,  in  a  very  graceful 
and  obhging  manner,  with  much  valuable  information,  and  with 
some  highly  interesting  materials  for  the  history  of  our  friend,  who 
had  sportively  given  her  the  title  of  sister,  and  who,  while  their 
intercourse  lasted,  treated  her  with  all  the  tenderness  and  all  the 
confidence  of  a  brother. 

Her  maiden  name  was  Richardson :  she  was  married,  very  early 
in  life,  to  Sir  Robert  Austen,  Baronet,  and  resided  with  him  in 
France,  where  he  died.  Her  intercourse  with  Cowper  is  already 
related.  In  a  subsequent  period  she  was  married  to  a  native  of 
France,  Mr.  De  Tardif,  a  gentleman  and  a  poet,  who  has  ex- 
pressed, in  many  elegant  French  verses,  his  just  and  deep  sense 


164  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 

of  her  accomplished,  endearing  character.  In  visiting  Paris  with 
him,  in  the  course  of  tlie  last  summer,  she  sunk  under  the  fatigue 
of  the  excursion,  and  died  in  that  city  on  the  twelfth  of  August, 
1802. 

My  obligations  to  her  kindness  induce  me  to  terminate  this  brief 
account  of  a  person  so  cordially  regarded  by  Cowper,  and  so  in- 
strumental to  the  existence  of  his  greatest  woi'k,  with  an  offering  of 
respect  and  gratitude,  in  the  shape  of  an 

EPITAPH. 

Honour  and  Peace,  ye  guardians  kindly  just. 

Fail  not  in  duty  to  this  hallow 'd  dust  I 

And  mortals  (all  wliose  cukur'd  spirits  know 

Joys  that  pure  faith  and  heavenly  verse  bestow) 

Passing  this  tomb,  its  buried  inmate  bless. 

And  obligation  to  her  powers  confess, 

Wlio,  when  she  grac'd  this  earth,  in  Austen's  name, 

Wak'd,  in  a  poet,  inspiration's  flame! 

Remov'd,  by  counsel,  like  the  voice  of  spring. 

Fetters  of  diffidence  from  Fancy's  wing. 

Sent  the  freed  eagle  in  the  sun  to  bask. 

And  from  the  mind  of  Cowper — call'd  the  Task ! 


I  close  my  work  with  these  verses,  from  a  persuasion  that  I  can 
pay  no  tribute  to  the  memoiy  of  Cowper  more  truly  acceptable  to 
his  tender  spirit,  than  praise  sincerely  bestowed  on  the  objects  of 
his  aifection. 


APPENDIX. 

(No.  1.) 

ORIGINAL  POEMS. 


To  JOHN  JOHNSON, 

On  his  presenting  vie  with  an  antique  Bust  of  Homer. 

iVINSMAN  belov'd,  and  as  a  son  by  me, 
\A^hen  I  behold  this  fruit  of  thy  regard. 
The  sculptur'd  form  of  my  old  fav'rite  bard, 

I  rev'rence  feel  for  him,  and  love  for  thee. 

Joy  too,  and  grief ;  much  joy,  that  there  should  be 
Wise  men,  and  learn 'd,  who  grudge  net  to  reward. 
With  some  applause,  my  bold  attempt,  and  hard, 

Which  others  scorn.     Critics  by  courtesy  I 

The  grief  is  this,  that,  sunk  in  Homer's  mine, 
I  lose  my  precious  years,  now  soon  to  fail ; 

Handling  his  gold,  which,  howsoe'er  it  shine. 
Proves  dross  when  balanc'd  in  the  Christian  scale ! 

Be  wiser  thou  I — Like  our  fore-father  Donne, 
Seek  heavenly  wealth,  and  work  for  God  alone  I 


To  the  Rc\erend  Mr.  NEWTON, 
On  his  Return  from  Ranisgate. 

That  ocean  you  of  late  survey'd. 

Those  rocks  I  too  have  seen. 
But  I,  afflicted  and  dismay'd, 

You  tranquil  and  serene. 


166  APPENDIX. 

You  from  the  flood-controuling  steep 
Saw  stretch 'd  before  your  view, 

With  conscious  joy,  the  threat'ning  deep. 
No  longer  such  to  you. 

To  me,  the  waves  that  ceaseless  broke 

Udoii  the  dang'rcus  coast, 
Poarsely,  and  ominously,  spoke 

Of  all  my  treasure  lost. 

Your  sea  of  troubles  you  have  past, 
And  found  the  peaceful  shore ; 

I,  tempest  toss'd,  and  wreck'd  at  last. 
Come  home  to  port  no  more. 


LOVE  ABUSED. 

What  is  there  in  the  vale  of  life 
Half  so  delightful  as  a  wife, 
Wlien  friendship,  love,  and  peace  combine 
To  stamp  the  marriage-bond  divine  ? 
The  stream  of  pure  and  genuine  love 
Derives  its  current  from  above ; 
And  earth  a  second  Eden  shows 
Where'er  the  healing  water  flows: 
But  ah,  if  from  the  d}'kes  and  drains 
Of  sensual  nature's  fev'rish  veins. 
Lust,  like  a  lawiess,  headstrong  flood, 
Impregnated  with  ooze  and  mud, 
Descending  fast  on  ev'ry  side. 
Once  mingles  with  the  sacred  tide, 
Farewell  the  soul-enliv'ning  scene  I 
The  banks  that  wore  a  smiling  green. 
With  rank  defilement  overspread, 
Bewail  their  fiow'ry  beauties  dead. 
The  stream,  polluted,  dark  and  dull, 
Difiiised  into  a  Stygian  pool. 
Through  life's  last  melancholy  years 
Is  fed  with  ever-flowing  tears. 

Complaints  supply  the  zephyr's  part, 
And  sighs  that  heave  a  breaking  heart. 


APPENDIX.  1G7 

EPITAPH 

On  Mr.  Chester,  of  Chichchy, 

Tears  flow,  and  cease  not,  where  the  good  man  lies, 

'Till  all  who  knew  him  follow  to  the  skies. 

Tears  therefore  fall,  where  Chester's  ashes  sleep  ; 

Him,  wife,  friends,  brothers,  children,  servants  weep— 

And  justly — few  shall  ever  him  transcend 

As  husband,  parent,  brother,  master,  friend. 

EPITAPH 

On  Mrs.  M.  Higgins^  of  Weston. 

Laurels  may  flom-ish  round  the  conqu'ror's  tomb, 
But  happiest  they  who  win  the  world  to  come : 
Believers  have  a  silent  field  to  fight, 
And  their  exploits  are  veil'd  from  human  sight. 
They  in  some  nook,  where  little  known  they  dwell, 
Kneel,  pray  in  faith,  and  rout  the  hosts  of  hell : 
Eternal  triumphs  crown  their  toils  divine, 
And  all  those  triumphs,  Mary,  now  are  thine. 

To  Count  GRAVINA. 
On  his  translating  the  Author's  Song  on  a  Rose  into  Italian  Verse, 

My  Rose,  Graviua,  blooms  anew, 

And  steep'd  not  now  in  rain, 
But  in  Castalian  streams,  by  you, 

Will  never  fade  again. 

INSCRIPTION 

For  a  Stone,  erected  at  the  solving  of  a  Grove  of  Oaks  at  Chilling- 
ton,  the  Seat  of  Thomas  Giffard,  Esquire.     1790. 

Other  stones  the  xra  tell 
When  some  feeble  mortal  fell; 
I  stand  here  to  date  the  birth 
Of  these  hardy  sons  of  earth. 

Which  shall  longest  brave  tiie  sky. 
Storm,  and  frost? — these  Oaks  or  V. 
Pass  an  age  or  two  away, 
I  must  moulder  and  decay ; 


168  APPENDIX. 

But  the  yeai's  that  crumble  me 
Shall  invigorate  the  tree, 
Spread  the  branch,  dilate  its  size, 
Lift  its  summit  to  the  skies. 

Cherish  honour,  virtue,  truth ! 
So  shalt  thou  prolong  thy  youth : 
Wanting  these,  however  fast 
Man  be  fixt,  and  form'd  to  last, 
He  is  lifeless  even  now. 
Stone  at  heart,  and  cannot  grow. 


INSCRIPTION 

For  a  Hermitage  in  the  Author's  Garden. 

This  cabin,  Mary,  in  my  sight  appears, 
Built  as  it  has  been  in  our  waning  years, 
A  rest  afforded  to  our  weary  feet. 
Preliminary  to the  last  retreat. 


STANZAS 

On  the  late  indecent  Liberties  taken  nvith  the  Reinains  of  the  great 
Mil  f ON.— Anno  1790. 

Me  too,  perchance,  in  future  days, 

The  sculptur'd  stone  shall  show. 
With  Paphian  myrtle,  or  with  bays 

Parnassian,  on  m}-  ijrnw. 

But  I,  or  ere  that  season  come, 

Escap'd  from  every  care, 
Shall  reach  my  refuge  in  the  tomb. 

And  sleep  securely  there.* 


So  sang,  in  Roman  tone  and  stile, 
The  yoivdiful  bard  ere  long, 

Grdain'd  to  grace  his  native  isle 
With  her  sublimest  song. 


*  Forsitan  et  nostros  ducat  de  niaimore  vulius 
Ncctei.s  aiit  Tanliia  myrti  aut  Parnasside  lauri 
Froiiiie  comas — At  ego  se^ju.a  pace  quicscam.  MiUoii. 


APPENDIX.  169 


Who,  then,  but  must  conceive  disdain, 

Hearing  the  deed  unblest 
Of  wretches  who  have  dar'd  prophane 

His  dread  sepulchral  rest  ? 

Ill  fare  the  hands  that  heav'd  the  stones 

WTiere  Milton's  ashes  lay, 
That  trembled  not  to  gi'asp  his  bones, 

And  steal  his  dust  away. 

Oh  ill  requited  bard  !  neglect 

Thy  living  worth  repay'd. 
And  blind  idolatrous  respect 

As  much  affronts  the  dead. 


A  TALE, 

Founded  on  a  Fact  which  happened  in  January^  1779. 

Wliere  Humber  pours  his  rich  commercial  stream. 
There  dwelt  a  wretch,  who  breath'd  but  to  blaspheme. 
In  subterraneous  caves  his  life  he  led. 
Black  as  the  mine,  in  which  he  wrought  for  bread. 
When  on  a  day,  emerging  from  the  deep, 
A  sabbath-day,  (such  sabbaths  thousands  keep) 
The  wages  of  his  weekly  toil  he  bore 
To  buy  a  cock,   whose  blood  might  win  him  more  ; 
As  if  the  noblest  of  the  feather'd  kind 
Were  but  for  battle,  and  for  death  design'd ; 
As  if  the  consecrated  hours  were  meant 
For  sport,  to  minds  on  cruelty  intent : 
It  chanc'd  (such  chances  Providence  obey) 
He  met  a  fellow-lab'rer  on  the  way, 
Whose  heart  the  same  de.'-ires  had  once  inflam'd — 
But  now  the  savage  temper  was  reclaim'd. 
Persuasion  on  his  lips  had  taken  place  ; 
For  all  plead  well  who  plead  the  cause  of  grace  ! 
His  iron-heai-t  with  scripture  he  assail'd, 
Woo'd  him  to  hear  a  sermon,  and  prevail'd. 
His  faithful  bow  the  mighty  preacher  drew. 
Swift,  as  the  lightning-glimpse,  the  arrow  flew  j 
He  wept,  he  trembled;  cast  his  eyes  around, 
To  find  a  worse  than  he  :  But  none  he  found. 
VOL.  ir.  2 


iro  APPENDIX. 

He  felt  his  sins,  and  wonder'd  he  should  feel. 
Grace  made  the  wound,  and  grace  alone  could  heal. 

Now,  farewell,  oaths,  and  blasphemies,  and  lies ! 
He  quits  the  sinner's,  for  the  martyr's  prize. 
That  holy  day  was  wash'd  with  many  a  tear, 
Gilded  with  hope,  y^t  shaded  too  by  fear. 
The  next,  his  swarthy  brethren  of  the  mine 
Learn 'd  by  his  alter'd  speech — the  change  divine! 
Laugh'd  when  they  should  have  wept,  and  swore  the  day 
Was  nigh,  when  he  would  swear  as  fast  as  they. 
*'  No,"  said  the  penitent,  "  such  words  shall  share 
"  This  breath  no  more,  devoted  now  to  pray'r. 
*'  Oh  !  if  thou  seest,  (thine  eye  the  future  sees) 
"  That  I  shall  yet  again  blaspheme,  like  these  ; 
"  Now  strike  me  to  the  ground,  on  which  I  kneel, 
"  Ere  yet  this  heart  relapses  into  steel ; 
"  Now  take  me  to  that  Heav'n  I  once  defy'd, 
*'  Thy  presence,  thy  embrace  !" — ^He  spoke,  and  dy'd  I 


A  TALE. 

In  Scotland's  realm,  where  trees  are  few, 

Nor  even  shrubs  abound  ; 
But  where,  however  bleak  the  view, 

Some  better  things  are  found  ; 

For  husband  there  and  wife  may  boast 

Their  union  undefii'd  ; 
And  false  ones  are  as  rare  almost 

As  hedge-rows  in  the  wild: 

In  Scotland's  realm,  forlorn  and  bare, 
Tliis  hist'ry  chanc'd  of  late — 

This  hist'ry  of  a  wedded  pair, 
A  chaffinch  and  his  mate. 

The  spring  drew  near,  each  felt  a  breast 

With  genial  instinct  fill'd; 
They  pair'd,  and  only  wish'd  a  nest, 

But  found  not  wliere  to  build. 


APPENDIX.  171 


The  heatlis  uncover'd,  and  the  moors, 
Except  with  snow  and  sleet ; 

Sea-beaten  rocks  and  naked  shores 
Could  yield  them  no  retreat. 

Long  time  a  breeding  place  they  sought, 
'Till  both  grew  vex'd  and  tir'd; 

At  length  a  ship  arriving,  brought 
The  good  so  long  desir'd. 

A  ship! — could  such  a  restless  thing 

Afford  them  place  to  rest  ? 
Or  was  the  merchant  charg'd  to  bring 

The  homeless  birds  a  nest  ? 

Hushl — silent  hearers  profit  most! — 

This  racer  of  the  sea 
Pi'ov'd  kinder  to  them  than  the  coast — 

It  serv'd  them  with  a  tree. 

But  such  a  tree !  'twas  shaven  deal ; 

The  tree  they  call  a  mast, 
And  had  a  hollow  with  a  wheel. 

Through  which  the  tackle  pass'd. 

Within  that  cavity  aloft 

Their  roofless  home  they  fixt; 

Form'd  with  materials  neat  and  soft, 
Bents,  wool,  and  feathers  mixt. 

Four  iv'ry  eggs  soon  pave  its  floor. 
With  russet  specks  bedight: — 

The  vessel  weighs — forsakes  the  shore, 
And  lessens  to  the  sight. 

The  mother  bird  is  gone  to  sea. 
As  she  had  chang'd  her  kind ; 

But  goes  the  mate  ?  Far  wiser,  he 
Is  doubtless  left  behind. 

No ! — Soon  as  from  ashore  he  saw 

The  Avingcd  mansion  move ; 
He  flew  to  reach  it,  Ijy  a  law 

Of  never -failing  love  I 


m  APPENDIX. 

Then  perching  at  his  consort's  side, 
Was  briskly  borne  along ; 

The  billoAvs  and  the  blasts  defied, 
And  cheer'd  her  with  a  song. 

The  seaman,  with  sincere  delight, 
His  feather 'd  shipmate  eyes. 

Scarce  less  exulting  in  the  sight, 
I'han  when  he  tows  a  prize. 

For  seamen  much  believe  in  signs, 
And  from  a  chance  so  new, 

Each  some  approaching  good  divines, 
And  may  his  hopes  be  true  I 

Hail,  honour'd  land  !  a  desert,  where 
Not  even  birds  can  hide, 

Yet  parent  of  this  loving  pair, 
Whom  nothing  could  divide. 

And  ye,  who  rather  than  resign 

Your  matrimonial  plan ; 
Were  not  afraid  to  plough  the  brine 

In  company  with  man. 

To  whose  lean  country,  much  disdain 
'We  English  often  show ; 

Yet  from  a  richer,  nothing  gain 
But  wantonness  and  woe. 

Be  it  your  fortune,  year  by  year. 
The  same  resource  to  prove ; 

And  may  ye,  sometimes  landing  here, 
Instruct  us  how  to  love ! 


This  tale  is  founded  on  an  anecdote  which  the  author  found  in 
the  Buckinghamshire  Herald,  for  Saturday,  June  1,  1793,  in  the 
following  words. 

Glasgow^  May  23d. 

In  a  block  or  pully,  near  the  head  of  the  mast  of  a  gabcrt,  now 
lying  at  the  Broomielaw,  there  is  a  chaffinch's  nest  and  four  eggs. 
The  nest  was  built  while  the  vessel  lay  at  Greenock,  and  was 


APPENDIX.  .  175 

followed  hither  by  both  birds.  Tliough  tlie  block  is  occasionally 
lowered  for  the  inspection  of  the  curious,  the  birds  have  not  for- 
saken the  nest.  The  cock,  however,  visits  the  nest  but  seldom, 
while  the  hen  never  leaves  it  but  when  she  descends  to  the  hulk 
for  food. 


STANZAS, 

Addressed  to  Lady  HESKEfH,  by  a  Lady,  in  retiu-ning  a  Poem 
of  Mr.  Coii-PEJi's,  le?it  to  the  Writer  on  Condition  she  shoidd 
neither  shoiu  it,  nor  take  a  Copy, 

What  wonder  !  if  my  waverijig  hand 

Had  dar'd  to  disobey, 
When  Hesketh  gave  a  harsh  command. 

And  Cowper  led  astray  ? 

Then  take  this  tempting  gift  of  thine, 

By  pen  uncopied  yet : 
But  can'st  thou,  Memory,  confine, 

Or  teach  me  to  forget  ? 

More  lasting  than  the  touch  of  art 

Her  characters  remain ; 
When  written  by  a  feeling  heart 

On  tablets  of  the  brain. 


Cowper' s  Reply. 

To  !)e  remcmber'd  thus  is  fame. 

And  in  the  first  degree ; 
And  did  the  few,  like  her,  the  same. 

The  press  might  rest  for  me. 

So  Homer,  in  the  memory  stor'd 

Of  many  a  Grecian  belle. 
Was  once  preserv'd — a  richer  hoard. 

But  never  lodg'd  so  well. 


APPENDIX. 

(No.  2.) 
TRANSLATIONS  OF  GREEK  VERSES. 

From  the  Greek  of  Julianus* 

A.  SPARTAN,  his  companions  slain, 

Alone  from  battle  fled  ; 
His  mother,  kindling  with  disdain 

That  she  had  borne  him,  struck  him  dead  ; 

For  courage,  and  not  birth  alone, 
In  Sparta,  testifies  a  son. 

On  the  same,  by  Palladas, 

A  Spartan,  'scaping  from  the  fight, 
His  mother  met  him  in  his  flight, 
Upheld  a  falchion  to  his  breast. 
And  thus  the  fugitive  address'd : 

"  Thou  can'st  but  live  to  blot  with  shame 
"  Indelible  thy  mother's  name, 
"  While  ev'ry  breath  that  thou  shalt  draw 
"  Ofifends  against  thy  country's  law : 
"  But  if  thou  perish  by  this  hand, 
"  Mj'self,  indeed,  throughout  the  land, 
"  To  my  dishonour  shall  be  knoAvn 
"  The  mother  still  of  such  a  son  ; 
"  But  Sparta  will  be  safe  and  free, 
''  And  that  shall  serve  to  comfort  me," 


APPENDIX.  175 


AN  EPITAPH. 


My  name — my  counti-y — what  are  they  to  thee  ? 
What — whether  base  or  proud,  my  pedigree  ? 
Perhaps  I  far  surpass'd  all  other  men — 
Perhaps  I  fell  below  them  all — what  then? 
Suffice  it,  stranger,   that  thou  see'st  a  tomb — 
Thou  know'st  its  use — it  hides — no  matter  whom. 


ji  not  her. 

Take  to  thy  bosom,  gentle  earth,  a  swain 
With  much  hard  labour  in  thy  service  worn. 
He  set  the  vines  that  clothe  yon  ample  plain, 
And  he  these  olives  that  the  vale  adorn. 

He  fill'd  with  grain  the  glebe,  the  rills  he  led 
Through  this  green  herbage,  and  those  fruitful  bow'rs: 
Thou,  therefore,  Earth,  lie  lightly  on  his  head, 
His  hoary  head,  and  deck  his  grave  with  flow'rs. 

jinotlier. 

Painter,  this  likeness  is  too  strong, 
And  we  shall  mourn  the  dead  too  long. 

Another. 

At  three-score  winters  end  I  died 
A  clieerless  being,  sole  and  sad; 
The  nuptial  knot  I  never  tied, 
And  wish  my  father  never  had. 


By   Callimachus. 

At  morn  we  plac'd  on  his  funereal  bier 
Young  Melanippus ;  and  at  even-tide. 
Unable  to  sustain  a  loss  so  dear. 
By  her  own  hand  his  Ijlooming  sister  died. 

Thus  Aristippus  mourn'd  his  noble  race, 
Annihilated  by  a  double  blow  ; 

Nor  son  could  hope,  nor  daughter  more  t'  embrace, 
Aud  all  Cyrene  saddcn'd  at  his  woe. 


176  APPENDli. 


On   MlLflADES, 

Miltiades,  thy  valour  best 
(Although  in  every  region  known) 
The  men  of  Persia  can  attest, 
Taught  by  thyself  at  Marathon. 


Oil  an  Infant. 

Bewail  not  much,  my  parents,  me,  the  prey 
Of  ruthless  Ades,  and  sepulcher'd  here, 
An  infant,  in  my  fifth  scarce  finish'd  year, 
He  found  all  sportive,  innocent,  and  gay, 
Your  young  Callimachus ;  and  if  I  knew 
Not  many  joys,  my  griefs  were  also  few. 


By  Heraclides. 

In  Cnidus  born,  the  consort  I  became 
Of  Euphron.     Aretimias  was  my  name. 
His  bed  I  shared,  nor  proved  a  barren  bride, 
But  bore  two  children  at  a  birth,  and  died. 
One  child  I  leave  to  solace  and  uphold 
Euphron  hereafter,  when  infirm  and  old ; 
And  one,  for  his  remembrance  sake,  I  bear 
To  Pluto's  realm,  till  he  shall  join  me  there. 


0)1  the  Reed. 

I  was  of  late  a  barren  plant. 
Useless,  insignificant, 
Nor  figv  nor  grape,  nor  apple  bore, 
A  native  of  the  marshy  shore  ; 
But  gather'd  for  poetic  use, 
And  phmg'd  into  a  sable  juice, 
Of  which  my  modicum  I  sip, 
With  narrow  mcuth  and  slender  lip. 
At  once,- although  by  nature  dumb, 
All-eloquent  I  have  beconie, 
And  speak  with  fiuency  untired, 
As  if  by  Phosbus  self , inspired. 


APPENDIX.  X77 


To  Healthy 


Eldest  born  of  pow'rs  divine, 
Blest  H}'gei   !  be  it  mine 
To  enjoy  what  thou  ctin'st  give, 
And  henceforth  with  thee  to  live : 
For  in  pow'r  if  pleasure  be, 
Wealth,  or  num'rous  progeny ; 
Or  in  amorous  embrace. 
Where  no  spy  infests  the  place  ; 
Or  in  aught  that  Heav'n  bestows 
To  alleviate  human  woes. 
Wlien  the  wearied  heart  despairs 
Of  a  respite  from  its  cares ; 
These  and  ev'ry  true  delight 
Flourish  only  in  thy  sight. 
And  the  sister  Graces  Three 
Owe,  themselves,  their  youth,  to  thee, 
Without  whom  we  may  possess 
Much,  but  never  happiness. 


On  the  Astrologers. 

Th'  Astrologers  did  all  alike  presage 
My  uncle's  dying  in  extreme  old  age  ; 
One  only  disagreed.     But  he  was  wise, 
And  spoke  not  till  he  heard  the  fun'ral  cries. 


On  an  Old   Woman, 

Mycilla  dyes  her  locks,  'tis  said. 

But  'tis  a  foul  aspersion  ; 
She  buys  them  black,  they  therefore  need 

No  subsequent  immersion. 


On  Invalids, 

Far  happier  are  the  dead,  methinks,  than  they 
Who  look  for  death,  and  fear  it  every  day. 

VOL.  II.  A  a 


178  APPENDIX. 


On  Flatterers, 

No  mischief  worthier  of  our  fear 

In  nature  can  be  found, 
Than  friendship,  in  ostent  sincere. 

But  hollow  and  unsound. 

For  lull'd  into  a  dang'rous  dream, 

We  close  infold  a  foe, 
Who  strikes,  when  most  secure  we  seem, 

Th'  inevitable  blow. 


On  the  Sivaliorv. 

Attic  maid !  with  honey  fed, 
Bear'st  thou  to  thy  callow  brood 

Yonder  locust  fi'om  the  mead, 
Destin'd  their  delicious  food? 

Ye  have  kindred  voices  clear, 
Ye  alike  unfold  the  wing, 

Migi'ate  hither,  sojourn  here, 
Both  attendant  on  the  spring. 

Ah,  for  pity,  drop  the  prize ; 

Let  it  not,  with  truth,  be  said 
That  a  songster  gasps  and  dies. 

That  a  songster  may  be  fed. 


On  late  acquired  Wealth. 

Poor  in  my  youth,  and  in  Ufe's  later  scenes 
Rich  to  no  end,  I  curse  my  natal  hour ; 

Who  nought  enjoy 'd,  while  young,  denied  the  means; 
And  nought,  when  old,  enjoy'd,  denied  the  pow'r. 

On  a  true  Friend. 

Hast  thou  a  friend?  Thou  hast,  indeed, 

A  rich  and  large  supply. 
Treasure  to  serve  your  ev'ry  need, 

Well-manag'd,  till  you  die. 


APPENDIX.  179 


On  a  Bath^  by  PlAfo, 

Did  Cytherea  to  the  skies 

From  this  pellucid  lymph  arise  ? 

Or  was  it  Cytherea's  touch, 

When  bathing  here,  that  made  it  such  ? 


On  a  FoivleVi  by  Isiodorus, 

With  seeds  and  bird-lime,  from  the  desert  air, 

Eumelus  gather'd  free,  though  scanty  fare. 

No  lordly  patron's  hand  he  deign 'd  to  kiss, 

Nor  luxury  knew,  save  liberty,  nor  bliss. 

Thrice  thirty  years  he  liv'd,  and  to  his  heirs 

His  reeds  bequeath'd,  his  bird-lime,  and  his  snares. 


On  J^''iOBE. 

Charon,  receive  a  family  on  board, 
Itself  sufficient  for  thy  crazy  yawl ; 

Apollo  and  Diana,  for  a  word 
By  me  too  proudly  spoken,  slew  us  all. 


On  a  good  Man, 

Traveller,  regret  not  me ;  for  thou  shalt  find 

Just  cause  of  sori-ow  none  in  my  decease, 
Who,  dying,  children's  children  left  behind  ; 

And  with  one  wife  liv'd  many  a  year  in  peace. 
Three  virtuous  youths  espoused  my  daughters  three, 

And  oft  their  infants  in  my  bosom  lay ; 
Nor  saw  I  one  of  all  derived  from  me 

Touch 'd  with  disease,  or  torn  by  death  away. 
Their  duteous  hands  my  fun'ral  rites  bestow'd, 

And  mc  my  blameless  manners  fitted  well 
To  seek  it,  sent  to  the  serene  abode 

Where  shades  of  pious  men  for  ever  dwell. 


M»  APPENDIX. 


On  a  Miser. 

They  call  thee  rich,  I  deem  thee  poor — 
Since,  if  thou  dar'st  not  use  thy  store, 
But  sav'st  it  only  for  thine  heirs, 
The  treasure  is  not  thine,  but  theirs. 


Another. 

A  Miser,  traversing  his  house, 

Espied,  unusual  there,  a  mouse, 

And  thus  his  uninvited  guest, 

Briskly  inquisitive,  address'd : 

*'  Tell  me,  my  dear,  to  what  cause  is  it 

*'  I  owe  this  unexpected  visit?" 

The  mouse  her  host  obliquely  eyed, 

And,  smiling,  pleasantly  replied, 

"  Fear  not,  good  fellow,  for  your  hoard, 

"  I  come  to  lodge,  and  not  to  board." 


Another. 

Art  thou  some  individual  of  a  kind 

Long-liv'd  by  nature  as  the  rook  or  hind? 

Heap  treasure,  then,  for  if  thy  need  be  such. 

Thou  hast  excuse,  and  scarce  can'st  heap  too  much. 

But  man  thou  seem'st ;  clear  therefore  from  thy  breast 

This  lust  of  treasure — folly  at  the  best ! 

For  why  should'st  thou  go  wasted  to  the  tomb. 

To  fatten  with  thy  spoils,  thou  know'st  not  whom  ? 


On  Female  Inconstancy. 

Rich,  thou  had'st  many  lovers — poor,  hast  none, 
So  surely  want  extinguishes  the  flame ; 

And  she  who  call'd  thee  once  her  pretty  one, 
And  her  Adonis,  now  inquires  thy  name. 


APPENDIX.  1^1 

Where  wast  thou  born,  Sosicrates,  and  where, 
In  what  strange  country  can  thy  parents  live. 

Who  seem'st,  by  thy  complaints,  not  yet  aware 
That  want's  a  crime  no  woman  can  forgive  ? 


On  the  Grasshopper. 

Happy  songster,  perch 'd  above 
On  the  summit  of  the  grove. 
Whom  a  dew-drop  cheers  to  shig 
With  the  freedom  of  a  king. 
From  thy  perch  survey  the  fields 
Where  prolific  nature  yields 
Nought  that  willingly  as  she, 
Man  surrenders  not  to  thee. 
For  hostility  or  hate 
None  thy  pleasures  can  create. 
Thee  it  satisfies  to  sing 
Sweetly  the  return  of  Spring ; 
Herald  of  the  genial  hours, 
Harming  neither  herbs  nor  flow'rs. 
Therefore  man  thy  voice  attends 
Gladly— thou  and  he  are  friends ; 
Nor  thy  never-ceasing  strains, 
Phoebus  or  the  muse  disdains, 
As  too  simple  or  too  long. 
For  themselves  inspire  the  song. 
Earth-born,  bloodless,  undecaying, 
Ever  singing,  sporting,  playing, 
What  has  nature  else  to  show 
Godlike  in  its  kind  as  thou  ? 


Oji  Hermocra'Tia. 

Hermocratia  named — save  only  one. 
Twice  fifteen  births  I  bore,  and  buried  none. 
For  neither  Phoebus  pierc'd  my  thriving  joys, 
Nor  Dian— she  my  girls,  or  he  my  boys. 
But  Dian  rather,  when  my  daughters  lay 
In  parturition,  chas'd  their  pangs  away  ; 
And  all  my  sons,  by  Phoebus'  bounty,  shared 
A  vig'rous  youth,  by  sickness  unimpaired. 
Oh  Niobe  1  far  less  prolific,  sec 
Thy  boast  against  Latona  shani'd  by  iTie  I 


183  APPENDIX. 


From  MEifASDKRm 

Fond  youth,  who  dream'st  that  hoarded  gold 

Is  needful,  not  alone  to  pay 
For  all  thy  various  items  sold 

To  serve  the  wants  of  ev'ry  day- 
Bread,  vinegar,  and  oil,  and  meat, 

For  sav'ry  viands  season'd  high, 
But  somewhat  more  important  yet— 

I  tell  thee  what  it  cannot  buy. 

No  treasure,  had'st  thou  more  amass'd 
Than  fame  to  Tantalus  assign'd. 

Would  save  thee  from  the  tomb  at  last; 
But  thou  must  leave  it  all  behind: 

I  give  thee,  therefore,  counsel  wise ; 

Confide  not  vainly  in  thy  store. 
However  large — much  less  despise 

Others  comparatively  poor. 

But  in  thy  more  exalted  state, 

A  just  and  equal  temper  show, 
That  all  who  see  thee,  rich  and  great, 

May  deem  thee  worthy  to  be  so. 


On  Pallas  Bathing, 

From  a  Hymn  of  Callimachus. 

Nor  oils  of  balmy  scent  produce. 
Nor  mirror  for  Minerva's  use ; 
Ye  nymphs  who  lave  her  !  she,  array'd 
In  genuine  beauty,  scorns  their  aid. 
Not  even  when  ihey  left  the  skies. 
To  seek  on  Ida's  head  the  prize, 
From  Paris'  hand,  did  Juno  deign, 
Or  Pallas  in  the  chrystal  plain 
Of  Simois'  stream,  her  locks  to  trace, 
Or  in  the  mirror's  polish 'd  face. 
Though  Venus  oft  with  anxious  care 
Adjusted  twice  a  single  hair. 


APPENDIX.  183 


To  Demos^henjs. 


It  flatters  and  deceives  thy  view, 
This  mirror  of  ill-polish 'd  ore; 

For  were  it  just,  and  told  thee  true, 
Thou  would'st  consult  it  never  more. 


On  a  similar  Character. 

You  give  your  cheeks  a  rosy  stain. 
With  washes  dye  your  hair  ; 

But  paint  and  washes  both  are  vaiu 
To  give  a  youthful  air. 

Those  wrinkles  mock  your  daily  toil ; 

No  labour  will  efface  'em  ; 
You  wear  a  mask  of  smoothest  oil ; 

Yet  still  with  ease  we  trace  'em. 

An  art  so  fruitless  then  forsake. 
Which,  though  you  much  excel  in, 

You  never  can  contrive  to  make. 
Old  Hecuba  young  Helen. 


On  an  ugly  Fellow^ 

Beware,  my  friend,  of  chrystal  brook. 
Or  fountain,  lest  that  hideous  hook, 

Thy  nose,  thou  chance  to  see. 
Narcissus'  fate  would  then  be  thine. 
And,  self-detested,  thou  would'st  pine 

As  self-enamour'd  he. 


072  a  battered  Beauty, 

Hair,  wax,  rouge,  honey,  teeth,  you  buy 

A  multifarious  store : 
A  mask  at  once  would  all  supply, 

Nor  would  it  cost  you  more. 


184  APPENDIX. 


On  a  Thief, 

When  Au\is,  the  nocturnal  thief,  made  prize 
Of  Hermes,  swift-winged  envoy  of  the  skies — 
Hermes,  Arcadia's  king,  the  thief  divine, 
Who,  when  an  infant,  stole  Apollo's  kine, 
And  whom,  as  arbiter  and  overseer 
Of  our  gymnastic  sports,  we  planted  here — 
Hermes  I  he  cried,  you  meet  no  new  disaster ; 
Oftimes  the  pupil  goes  beyond  his  master. 


On  Pedigrees  from  Kpicharmus. 

My  mother,  if  thou  love  me,  name  no  more 
My  noble  birth.    Sounding  at  every  breath 
My  noble  birth,  thou  kiU'st  me.     Thither  fly. 
As  to  their  only  refuge,  all  from  whom 
Nature  withholds  all  good  besides :  they  boast 
Their  noble  birth,  conduct  us  to  the  tombs 
Of  their  forefathers,  and  from  age  to  age 
Ascending,  trumpet  their  illustrious  race. 
But  whom  hast  thou  beheld,  or  can'st  thou  name, 
Deriv'd  from  no  forefathers  ?  Such  a  man 
Lives  not ;  for  how  could  such  be  born  at  all  ? 
And  if  it  chance,  that,  native  of  a  land 
Far  distant,  or  in  infancy  depriv'd 
Of  all  his  kindred,  one  who  cannot  trace 
His  origin,  exist,  why  deem  him  sprung 
From  baser  ancestry  than  theirs  who  can  ? 
My  mother,  he  whom  nature  at  his  birth 
Endow 'd  with  virtuous  qualities,  although 
An  ^thiop  and  a  slave,  is  nobly  born. 


On  Envy, 

Pity,  says  the  Theban  bard, 
From  my  wishes  I  discard 
Envy:  let  me  rather  be, 
Rather  far  a  theme  for  thee. 
Pity  to  distress  is  shown ; 
Envy  to  the  great  alone. 


APPENDIX.  185 

So  the  Theban — But  to  shine 
Less  conspicuous  be  mine  I 
I  prefer  the  golden  mean 
Pomp  and  penury  between. 
For  alarm  and  peril  wait 
Ever  on  the  loftiest  state, 
And  the  lowest,  to  the  end, 
Obloquy  and  scorn  attend. 

By  Philemon. 

Oft  we  enhance  our  ills  by  discontent, 
And  give  them  bulk  beyond  what  nature  meant. 
A  parent,  brother,  friend  deceas'd,  to  cry, 
"  He's  dead  indeed,  but  he  was  born  to  die  ;" 
Such  temperate  grief  is  suited  to  the  size 
And  burthen  of  the  loss,  is  just  and  wise. 
But  to  exclaim,  "  Ah  !  wherefore  was  I  born, 
"  Thus  to  be  left,  for  ever  thus  foi'lorn  ?" 
Who  thus  laments  his  loss,  invites  distress. 
And  magnifies  a  woe  that  might  be  less. 
Through  dull  despondence  to  his  lot  i-esigned, 
And  leaving  reason's  remedy  behind. 


By  MoscHUS. 

I  slept,  when  Venus  enter'd :  To  my  bed 

A  Cupid  in  her  beauteous  hand  she  led, 

A  bashful-seeming  boy,  and  thus  she  said: 

"  Shepherd  receive  my  little  one  :  I  bring 

"  An  untaught  love,  whom  thou  must  teach  to  sing." 

She  said,  and  left  him.     I  suspecting  nought. 

Many  a  sweet  strain  my  subtle  pupil  taught, 

How  reed  to  reed  Pan  first  with  ozier  bound. 

How  Pallas  form'd  the  pipe  of  softest  sound. 

How  Hermes  gave  the  lute,  and  how  the  quire 

Of  Phcebus  owe  to  Phoebus'  self  the  lyre. 

Such  were  my  themes :  my  themes  nought  heeded  he, 

But  ditties  sang  of  am'rous  sort  to  me. 

The  pangs  that  mortals  and  immortals  prove 

From  Venus'  influence  and  the  darts  of  love. 

Thus  was  the  teacher  by  the   pupil  taught ; 

His  lessons  I  retain'd,  and  mine  foi'got. 

VOL.  II.  B  b 


APPENDIX. 

(No.  3.) 
TRANSLATIONS  from  HORACE  and  VIRGIL. 


THE 

FIFTH  SATIRE 

OF    THE 

FIRST  BOOK  OF  HORACE. 

(Printed  in  Duncombe's  Horace.) 


A  humorous  Description  of  the  Author's  Journey  from  Rome 
to  Brundusium, 

1  WAS  a  long  journey  lay  before  us, 
When  I,  and  honest  Heliodorus, 
Who  far  in  point  of  rhetoric 
Surpasses  ev'ry  living  Greek, 
Each  leaving  our  respective  home, 
Together  sally 'd  forth  from  Rome. 

First  at  Aricia  we  alight. 
And  there  refresh,  and  pass  the  night, 
Our  entertainment  rather  coarse 
Than  sumptuous,  but  I've  met  with  worse; 
Thence  o'er  the  causeway,  soft  and  fair, 
To  Apiiforum  we  repair. 
But  as  this  road  is  well  supply'd 
(Temptation  strong)  on  either  side 
With  inns  commodious,  snug  and  warm, 
We  split  the  journey,  and  perform 
In  two  days  time,  what's  often  done 
By  brisker  travellers  in  one. 
Here,  rather  choosing  not  to  sup 
Than  with  bad  water  mix  my  cup, 


APPENDIX.  Mr 


After  a  warm  debate,  in  spite 

Of  a  provoking  appetite, 

I  sturdily  resolv'd  at  last 

To  balk  it,  and  pronounce  a  fast, 

And  in  a  moody  humour  wait. 

While  my  less  dainty  comrades  bait. 

Now  o'er  the  spangled  hemisphere 
DifFus'd,  the  starry  train  appear, 
When  there  arose  a  desp'rate  brawl, 
The  slaves  and  bargemen,  one  and  all, 
Rending  their  thi'oats,  (have  mercy  on  us  I) 
As  if  they  wei'e  resolv'd  to  stun  us ; 
"  Steer  the  barge  this  way  to  the  shore ! 
"  I  tell  you,  we'll  admit  no  more  ! 
"  Plague !  will  you  never  be  content?" 
Thus  a  whole  hour  at  least  is  spent, 
While  they  receive  the  sev'ral  fares, 
And  kick  the  mule  into  his  gears. 
Happy,  these  difficulties  past. 
Could  we  have  fall'n  asleep  at  last! 
But,  what  with  humming,  croaking,  biting, 
Gnats,  frogs,  and  all  their  plagues  uniting, 
These  tuneful  natives  of  the  lake 
Conspir'd  so  keep  us  broad  awake. 
Besides,  to  make  the  concert  full. 
Two  maudlin  wights,  exceeding  dull, 
The  bargeman,  and  a  passenger. 
Each  in  his  turn  essay'd  an  air 
In  honour  of  his  absent  fair. 
At  length,  the  passenger,  opprest 
With  wine,  left  off,  and  snor'd  the  rest. 
The  weary  bargeman  too  gave  o'er, 
And  hearing  his  companion  snore, 
Seiz'd  the  occasion,  fix'd  the  barge, 
Turn'd  out  his  mule  to  graze  at  large, 
And  slept,  forgetful  of  his  charge. 
And  now  the  sun  o'er  eastern  hill 
Discover'd  that  our  barge  stood  still ; 
WTien  one,  whose  anger  vcx'd  him  sore, 
With  malice  fraught,  leaps  quick  on  shore, 
Plucks  up  a  stake,  with  many  a  thwack 
Assails  the  mule  and  driver's  back. 


m  APPENDIX. 

Then  slowly  moving  on  with  pain, 
At  ten  Fei'onia's  stream  we  gain, 
And  in  her  pm-e  and  glassy  wave 
Our  hands  and  faces  gladly  lave. 
Climbing  three  miles,  fair  Anxur's  height 
We  reach,  with  stony  quarries  white. 
While  here,  as  was  agreed,  we  wait 
'Till,  charg'd  with  bus'ness  of  the  state, 
Maecenas  and  Cocceius  come. 
The  messengers  of  peace  from  Rome. 
My  eyes,  by  wat'ry  humours  blear 
And  sore,  I  with  black  balsam  smear. 
At  length  they  join  us,  and  with  them 
Our  worthy  friend,  Fonteius  came, 
A  man  of  such  complete  desert, 
Antony  lov'd  him  at  his  heart. 
At  Fundi  we  refus'd  to  bait. 
And  laugh 'd  at  vain  Aufidius'  state. 
A  praetor  now,  a  scribe  before. 
The  purple-border'd  robe  he  wore, 
His  slave  the  smoking  censer  bore, 
Fir'd  at  Mursena's  we  repose, 
At  Formia  sup  at  Capito's. 

With  smiles  the  rising  morn  we  greet, 
At  Sinnuessa  pleas'd  to  meet 
With  Plotius,  Varius,  and  the  bard 
Whom  Mantua  first  Avith  wonder  heard. 
The  world  no  purer  spirits  knows. 
For  none  my  heart  more  warmly  glows. 
Oh!  what  embraces  we  bestow 'd. 
And  with  what  joy  our  breasts  o'ei'flow'd! 
Sure,  while  my  sense  is  sound  and  clear, 
liong  as  I  live,  I  shall  prefer 
A  gay,  good-natur'd,  easy  friend, 
To  ev'ry  blessing  Heav'n  can  send. 
At  a  small  village  the  next  night 
Near  the  Vulturnus  we  alight ; 
Where,  as  employ'd  on  state  affairs. 
We  were  supply'd  by  the  purvey'rs. 
Frankly  at  once,  and  without  hire, 
With  food  for  man  and  horse,  and  fire. 
Capua  next  day  betimes  we  reach, 
Wlicre  Virgil  and  myself,  who  each 


APPENDIX.  18* 

Lal)om''d  with  different  maladies, 

His  such  a  stomach,  mine  such  eyes, 

As  would  not  bear  strong  exercise, 

In  drowsy  mood  to  sleep  resort ; 

Mxcenas  to  the  tennis-court. 

Next  at  Cocceius'  farm  we're  treated, 

Above  the  Caudian  tavern  seated. 

His  kind  and  hospitable  board 

W'ith  choice  of  wholesome  food  was  stor'd. 

Now,  O  ye  Nine,  inspire  my  lays  ! 

To  nobler  themes  my  fancy  raise ! 

Two  combatants,  who  scorn  to  yield 

The  noisy  tongue-disputed  field, 

Sarmentus  and  Cicirrus,  claim 

A  poet's  tribute  to  their  fame ; 

Cicirrus  of  true  Oscian  breed, 

Sarmentus,  who  was  never  freed, 

But  ran  away.     We  don't  defame  him. 

His  lady  lives,  and  still  may  claim  him. 

Thus  dignify'd,  in  hardy  fray 

These  champions  their  keen  wit  display, 

And  first  Sarmentus  led  the  way. 

"  Thy  locks,"  quotli  he,  "  so  rough  and  coarse, 

"  Look  like  the  mane  of  some  wild  horse." 

We  laugh.     Cicirrus  undismay'd — 

"  Have  at  you  !" — cries,  and  shakes  his  head. 

"  'Tis  well,"  Sarmentus  says,  "  you've  lost 

"  That  horn  your  forehead  once  could  boast ; 

"  Since,  maim'd  and  mangled  as  you  are, 

"  You  seem  to  l^utt."     A  hideous  scar 

Improv'd,  'tis  true,  with  double  grace, 

The  native  horrors  of  his  face. 

Well,  after  much  jocosely  said 

Of  his  grim  front,  so  fi'ry  red, 

(For  carbuncles  had  blotch'd  it  o'er. 

As  usual  on  Campania's  shore) 

"  Give  us,"  he  cry'd,  "  since  you're  so  big, 

"  A  sample  of  the  Cyclops'  jig. 

"  Your  shanks  mcthinks  no  buskins  ask, 

<'  Nor  does  yom-  phiz  require  a  mask." 

To  this  Cicirrus — "  In  return, 

"  Of  you,  Sir,  now  I  fain  would  learn, 


I9p  APPENDIX. 

"  When  'twas,  no  longer  deem'd  a  slave, 

"  Your  chains  you  to  the  Lares  gave : 

"  For  though  a  scriv'ner's  right  you  claim, 

"  Your  lady's  title  is  the  same. 

"  But  what  could  make  you  run  away, 

*'  Since,  pygmy  as  you  are,  each  day 

"  A  single  pound  of  bread  would  quite 

"  O'erpow'r  your  pufty  appetite?" 

Thus  jok'd  the  champions,  while  we  laugh 'd> 

And  many  a  cheerful  bumper  quaff'd, 

To-Beneventum  next  we  steer; 
Where  our  good  host,  by  over-care 
In  roasting  thinishes  lean  as  mice, 
Had  almost  fall'n  a  sacrifice. 
The  kitchen  soon  was  all  on  fire, 
And  to  the  roof  the  flames  aspire. 
There  might  you  see  each  man  and  master 
Striving  amidst  this  sad  disaster 
To  save  the  supper.     Then  they  came 
With  speed  enough  to  quench  the  flame. 
From  hence  we  first  at  distance  see 
Th'  Apulian  hiUs,  well  known  to  me, 
Parch'd  by  the  sultry  western  blast; 
And  which  we  never  should  have  past. 
Had  not  Trivicus  by  the  way 
Receiv'd  us  at  the  close  of  day. 
But  each  was  forc'd  at  ent'ring  here 
To  pay  the  tribute  of  a  tear  ; 
For  more  of  smoke  than  fire  was  seen — 
The  hearth  was  pil'd  with  logs  so  green. 
From  hence  in  chaises  we  were  carry'd 
Miles  twenty-four,  and  gladly  tarry'd 
At  a  sma.]]  town,  whose  name  my  verse 
(So  bai'b'rcus  is  it)  can't  rehearse. 
Know  it  you  may,  by  many  a  sign. 
Water  is  dearer  far  than  wine  ; 
Their  bread  is  deem'd  such  dainty  fare. 
That  ev'ry  pn-deiit  traveller 
His  v/allet  loads  with  many  a  crust, 
For  at  Canueium  you  might  just 
As  well  attempt  to  gnaw  a  stone 
As  Uiiiik  to  sret  a  morsel  down. 


APPENDIX.  191 


That  too  -with  scanty  streams  is  fed, 

Its  founder  was  brave  Diomed. 

Good  Varius,  (ah,  that  friends  must  part!) 

Here  left  us  all  with  aching  heart. 

At  Rubi  we  arriv'd  that  day. 

Well  jaded  by  the  length  of  way, 

And  sure  poor  mortals  ne'er  were  wetter. 

Next  day  no  weather  could  be  better. 

No  roads  so  bad  ;  we  scarce  could  crawl 

Along  to  fishy  Barium'"  wall. 

Th'  Egnatians  next,  who,  by  the  rules 

Of  common  sense,  are  knaves  or  fools, 

Made  all  our  sides  with  laughter  heave, 

Since  we  with  them  must  needs  believe, 

That  incense  in  their  temples  burns, 

And  without  fire  to  ashes  turns. 

To  circumcision's  bigots  tell 

Such  tales  I  For  me,  I  know  full  well, 

That  in  high  heav'n,  unmov'd  by  care, 

The  gods  eternal  quiet  share: 

Nor  can  I  deem  their  spleen  the  cause. 

Why  fickle  Nature  breaks  her  laws. 

Brundusium  last  we  reach :  and  there 

Stop  short  the  Muse  and  traveller. 


THE 

NINTH  SATIRE 

OF    THE 

FIRST  BOOK  OF  HORACE, 


The  Descrijition  of  an  Imfierdnent, 

Adapic-J  to  the  present  I'imcs,  1759. 

SaUNT'RING  along  the  street  one  day. 

On  trifles  musing  by  the  way — 

Up  steps  a  free  familiar  wight, 

(I  scarcely  knew  the  man  by  sight.) 

"  Carlos,"  he  cry'd,  "  your  hand,  my  dear ! 

"  Gad,  I  rejoice  to  meet  you  here ! 


m  APPENDIX. 

"  Pray  heav'n  I  see  you  well !" — "  So,  so : 
"  E'en  well  enough,  as  times  now  go. 
"  The  same  good  wishes,  Sir,  to  you." 
Finding  he  still  pursu'd  me  close — 
"  Sir,  you  have  bus'ness  I  suppose." 
"  My  bus'ness.  Sir,  is  quickly  done. 
"  'Tis  but  to  make  my  merit  known. 
"  Sir,  I  have  read" — "  O  learned  Sir, 
"  You  and  your  learning  I  revere." 
Then,  sweating  with  anxiety. 
And  sadly  longing  to  get  free, 
Gods,  how  I  scamper'd,  scuffled  for't, 
Ran,  halted,  ran  again,  stopp'd  short, 
Beckon'd  my  boy,  and  puU'd  him  near, 
And  whisper'd  nothing  in  his  ear. 

Teaz'd  with  his  loose  unjointed  chat — 
"  What  street  is  this  ?  What  house  isthat?"— . 
O  Harlow,  how  I  envy'd  thee 
Thy  imabash'd  effrontery. 
Who  dar'st  a  foe  with  freedom  blame, 
And  call  a  coxcomb  by  his  name  ! 
When  I  return 'd  him  answer  none. 
Obligingly  the  fool  ran  on  : 
"  I  see  you're  dismally  distrest, 
"  Would  give  the  world  to  be  releas'd. 
"  But  by  your  leave,  Sir,  I  shall  still 
"  Stick  to  your  shirts,  do  what  you  will. 
"  Pray,  which  way  does  your  journey  tend?" 
"  Oh  'tis  a  tedious  way,  my  friend, 
"  Across  the  Thames,  the  Lord  knows  where. 
"  I  would  not  trouble  you  so  far." 
"  Well,  I'm  at  leisure  to  attend  you." 
"  Are  you?"  thought  I,  "  the  de'il  befriend  you." 
No  ass,  with  double  panniers  rack'd, 
Oppress'd,  o'erladen,  broken-back'd, 
E'er  look'd  a  thousandth  part  so  dull 
As  I,  nor  half  so  like  a  fool. 
"  Sir,  I  know  little  of  myself, 
(Proceeds  the  pei-t  conceited  elf) 
"  If  Gray  or  Mason  you  will  deem 
"  Than  me  more  wortliy  your  esteem. 
"  Poems  I  write  by  folios, 
"  As  fast  as  other  men  write  prose. 


APPENDIX.  193 


"  Then  I  can  sing  so  loud,  so  clear, 

"  That  bard  cannot  with  me  compare. 

"  In  dancing  too  I  all  surpass, 

"  Not  Cooke  can  move  with  such  a  grace," 

Here  I  made  shift,  with  much  ado, 

To  interpose  a  word  or  two. 

"  Have  you  no  parents,  Sir,  no  friends, 

"  Whose  welfare  on  your  own  depends?" — 

"  Parents,  relations,  say  you  ?  No, 

"  They're  all  dispos'd  of  long  ago — 

"  Happy  to  be  no  more  pei-plex'd. 

"  My  fate  too  threatens,  I  go  next. 

"  Dispatch  me,  Sir,  'tis  now  too  late^ 

"  Alas  1  to  struggle  with  my  fate ! 

"  Well,  I'm  convinc'd  my  time  is  come — 

"  When  young,  a  gypsy  told  my  doom. 

"  The  beldame  shook  her  palsy'd  head, 

"  As  she  perus'd  my  palm,  and  said : 

"  Of  poison,  pestilence,  or  war, 

"  Gout,  stone,  defluction,  or  catarrh, 

"  You  have  no  reason  to  beware. 

"  Beware  the  coxcomb's  idle  prate  ; 

"  Chiefly,  my  son,  beware  of  that. 

"  Be  sure,  when  you  behold  him,  fly 

"  Out  of  all  ear-shot,  or  you  die." 

To  Rufus'  Hall  we  now  drew  near, 
Where  he  was  summon'd  to  appear, 
Refute  the  charge  the  plaintiff  brought, 
Or  suffer  judgment  by  default. 
"  For  Heaven's  sake,  if  you  love  me,  wait 
"  One  moment !  I'll  be  with  you  straight." 
Glad  of  a  plausible  pretence — 
"  Sir,  I  must  beg  you  to  dispense 
"  With  my  attendance  in  the  court, 
"  My  legs  will  surely  suffer  for't." — 
"  Nay,  prythee,  Carlos,  stop  awhile  I" 
"  Faith,  Sir,  in  law  I  have  no  skill; 
"  Besides,  I  have  no  time  to  spare. 
"  I  must  Ije  going,  you  know  where." 
"  \\^ell,  I  protest,  I'm  doubtful  now, 
*'  Whether  to  leave  my  suit  or  you." 
"  Me  without  scruple  !  (I  reply) 
"  Me  by  all  means,  Sir,"—"  No,  not  L 

VOL.  II.  c  c 


194.  APPENDIX. 

^''  Allons^  Monsieur!"  'Twere  vain,  you  know, 

To  strive  with  a  victorious  foe  ; 

So  I  reluctantly  obey, 

And  follow,  where  he  leads  the  way. 

"  You,  and  Newcastle,  are  so  close, 
"  Still  hand  and  glove,  Sir,  I  suppose.— 
"  Newcastle  (let  me  tell  you,  Sir) 
"  Has  not  his  equal  every  where." — 
"  Well ;  there,  indeed,  your  fortune's  made. 
"  Faith,  Sir,  you  understand  your  trade. 
"  Would  you  but  give  me  your  good  woi'd, 
"  Just  introduce  me  to  my  Lord, 
"  I  should  serve  charmingly  by  way 
"  Of  second  fiddle,  as  they  say: 
"  What  think  you.  Sir  ?    'twere  a  good  jest, 
"  'Slife,  we  should  quickly  scout  the  rest." — . 
"  Sir,  you  mistake  the  matter  far, 
"  We  have  no  second  fiddles  there."— 
"  Richer  than  I  some  folks  may  be, 
"  Moi'e  learned.     But  it  hurts  not  me. 
"  Friends  though  he  has  of  difF'rent  kind, 
"  Each  has  his  proper  place  assign'd." 
"  Strange  matters  these  alledg'd  by  you  I" — 
"  Strange  they  may  be.     But  they  are  true,'' 
"  Well,  then,  I  vow  'tis  mighty  clever  ; 
"  Now,  I  long  ten  times  more  than  ever 
"  To  be  advanc'd  extremely  near 
"  One  of  his  shining  character. 
"  Have  but  the  will ;  there  wants  no  more, 
"  'Tis  plain  enough  you  have  the  pow'r. 
"  His  easy  temper  (that's  the  worst) 
''  He  knows,  and  is  so  shy  at  first. 
"  But  such  a  cavalier  as  you — 
"  Lord,  Sir,  you'll  quickly  bring  him  too  { 
"  Well ;  if  I  fail  in  my  design, 
"  Sir,  it  shall  be  no  fault  of  mine. 
"  If  by  the  saucy  servile  tribe 
"  Deny'd,  what  think  you  of  a  bribe  ? 
"  Shut  out  to-day,  not  die  with  sorrow, 
"  But  try  my  luck  again  to-morrow. 
"  Never  attempt  to  visit  him 
"  But  at  the  most  convenient  time  ; 


APPENDIX.  1^5 


*'  Attend  him  on  each  levee-day, 
"  And  there  my  humble  duty  pay. 
*'  Labour  like  this  our  want   supplies, 
*♦  And  they  must  stoop  who  mean  to  rise." 

While  thus  he  wittingly  harangu'd, 
For  which  you'll  guess  I  wish  him  hang'd, 
Campley,  a  friend  of  mine,  came  by, 
Who  knew  his  humour  more  than  I. 
We  stop,  salute,  and — "  Why  so  fast, 
"  Friend  Carlos?— Whither  all  this  haste  ?"- 
Fir'd  at  the  thoughts  of  a  reprieve, 
I  pinch  him,  pull  him,  twitch  his  sleeve, 
Kod,  beckon,  bite  my  lips,  wink,  pout, 
Do  ev'ry  thing  but  speak  plain  out ; 
Wliile  he,  sad  dog,  from  the  beginning 
Determin'd  to  mistake  my  meaning, 
Instead  of  pitying  my  curse. 
By  jeering  made  it  ten  times  worse. 
*'  Campley,  what  secret,  pray,  was  that 
"  You  wanted  to  communicate?" 
"  I  recollect.     But  'tis  no  matter, 
"  Carlos,  we'll  talk  of  that  hereafter. 
"  E*en  let  the  secret  rest.     'Twill  tell 
"  Another  time.  Sir,  just  as  well." 

Was  ever  such  a  dismal  day  ! 
tJnlucky  cur,  he  steals  away. 
And  leaves  me,  half  bereft  of  life, 
At  mercy  of  the  butcher's  knife : 
Wlien  sudden,  shouting  from  afar, 
See  his  antagonist  appear ! 
The  bailiff  seiz'd  him  quick  as  thought. 
"  Ho,  Mr.  Scoundrel !  are  you  caught  ? 
*'  Sir,  you  are  witness  to  th'  aiTest." 
"  Aye  marry.  Sir,  I'll  do  my  best." 
The  mob  huzzas.     Away  they  trudge, 
Culprit  and  all,  before  the  judge. 
Meanwhile  I  luckily  enough. 
Thanks  to  Apollo,  got  clear  off. 


196  APPENDIX. 

THE  SALLAD. 
By  VIRGIL. 

This  singular  fioem^  which  the  learned  and  judicious  Heyne  seems 
inclined  to  think  a  translation  of  Virgil's,  from  the  Greek  of 
Parthenius,  loas  translated  into  English,  by  Convfier,  during 
his  depressive  7nalady,  June,  1^99 ;  and  to  those  ivho  are  used 
to  philosophize  on  the  powers  of  the  human  mind  under  afflic- 
tion, it  will  appear  a  highly  interesting  curiosity. 

Ifitid,  in  the  second-volume  of  the  St.  James's  Magazine,  published 
in  1763,  by  Lloyd,  the  early  friend  of  Cowper,  another  version 
of  this  poem  in  rhyme — it  has  only  the  initials  of  the  author 
prefixed — R.  T. 


1  HE  winter-night  now  well-nigh  worn  away, 
The  wakefiil  cock  proclaim 'd  approaching  day, 
When  Simulus,  poor  tenant  of  a  farm 
Of  narrowest  limits,  heard  the  shrill  alarm, 
Yawn'd,  stretch 'd  his  limbs,  and  anxious  to  provide 
Against  the  pangs  of  hunger  unsupplied. 
By  slow  degrees  his  tatter'd  bed  forsook. 
And,  poking  in  the  dark,  explor'd  the  nook 
Where  embers  slept  with  ashes  heap'd  around. 
And  with  burnt  fingers-ends  the  treasure  found. 

It  chanc'd  that  from  a  brand  beneath  his  nose, 
Sui'e  proof  of  latent  fire,  some  smoke  arose ; 
When  trimming  with  a  pin  th'  incrusted  tow, 
And  stooping  it  toward  the  coals  below, 
He  toils,  with  cheeks  distended,  to  excite 
The  ling'ring  flame,  and  gains  at  length  a  light. 
With  prudent  heed  he  spreads  liis  hand  before 
The  quiv'ring  lamp,  and  opes  his  gran'ry  door. 
Small  was  his  stock,  but  taking  for  the  day 
A  measur'd  stint  of  twice  eight  pounds  away. 
With  these  his  mill  he  seeks.     A  shelf  at  hand, 
Fixt  in  the  wall,  affords  his  lamp  a  stand: 
Then  baring  both  his  arms — a  sleeveless  coat 
fie  girds,  the  rough  exuvix  of  a  goat ; 


APPENDIX.  19? 

And  with  a  rubber,  for  that  use  design 'd, 
Cleansing  his  mill  within,  begins  to  grind  ; 
Each  hand  has  its  employ;  lab'ring  amain, 
This  turns  the  wince,  while  that  supplies  the  grain. 
The  stone  revolving  rapidly,  now  glows, 
And  the  biuis'd  corn,  a  mealy  current  flows; 
While  he,  to  make  his  heavy  labour  light. 
Tasks  oft  his  left-hand  to  relieve  his  right ; 
And  chaunts  with  rudest  accent,  to  beguile 
His  ceaseless  toil,  as  rude  a  strain  the  while. 
And  now,  dame  Cybale,  come  forth  !  he  cries; 
But  Cybale,  still  slumb'ring,  nought  replies. 

From  Afric  she,  the  swain's  sole  serving-maid, 
Whose  face  and  form  alike  her  birth  betra,y'd. 
With  Avooliy  locks,  lips  tumid,  sable  skin. 
Wide  bosom,  udders  flaccid,  belly  tliin. 
Legs  slender,  broad  and  most  mishapen  feet, 
Chapp'd  into  chinks,  and  parch'd  with  solar  heat. 
Such,  summon'd  oft,  she  came ;  at  his  command 
Fresh  fuel  heap'd,  the  sleeping  embers  fann'd, 
And  made,  in  haste,  her  simm'ring  skillet  steam, 
Replenish'd  newly  from  the  neighbouring  stream. 

The  labours  of  the  mill  perform 'd,  a  sieve 
The  mingled  flour  and  bran  must  next  receive. 
Which  shaken  oft,  shoots  Ceres  through  refin'd 
And  better  dress'd,  her  husks  all  left  behind. 
This  done,  at  once,  his  future  plain  repast, 
Unleaven'd,  on  a  shaven  board  he  cast, 
With  tepid  lymph  first  largely  soak'd  it  all. 
Then  gather'd  it  with  both  hands  to  a  ball, 
And  spreading  it  again  with  both  hands  wide, 
With  sprinkled  salt  tlie  stiffen 'd  mass  supplied ; 
At  length  the  stubborn  substance,  duly  wrought. 
Takes  from  his  palms,  impress'd,  the  shape  it  ouglit, 
Becomes  an  orb — and,  quarter'd  into  shares. 
The  faithful  mark  of  just  division  bears. 
Last,  on  liis  hearth  it  finds  convenient  space. 
For  Cyl:)ale  Ijcfore  had  swept  the  place. 
And  there,  witli  tiles  and  cmljcrs  overspread, 
She  leaves  it,  reeking  in  its  sultry  bed. 


198  APPENDIX. 

Nor  Simulus,  while  Vulcan  thus  alone 
His  part  perform 'd,  proves  heedless  of  his  o-\vn  ;    > 
But  sedulous  not  merely  to  subdue 
His  hunger,  but  to  please  his  palate  too, 
Prepares  more  sav'ry  food.    His  chimney-side 
Could  boast  no  gammon,  salted  well,  and  dried, 
And  hook'd  behind  him ;  but  sufficient  store 
Of  bundled  annis,  and  a  cheese  it  bore — 
A  broad  round  cheese,  which,  through  its  centre  strung 
With  a  tough  broom-twig,  in  the  corner  hung ; 
The  prudent  hero,  therefore,  with  address 
And  quick  dispatch,  now  seeks  another  mess. 


Close  to  his  cottage  lay  a  garden-ground, 
With  reeds  and  osiers  sparely  girt  around  ; 
Small  was  the  spot,  but  lib'ral  to  produce, 
Nor  wanted  aught  that  serves  a  peasant's  use ; 
And  sometimes  e'en  the  rich  would  borrow  thence, 
Although  its  tillage  was  his  sole  expense. 
For  oft,  as  from  his  toils  abroad  he  ceas'd. 
Home-bound  by  weather,  or  some  stated  feast, 
His  debt  of  culture  here  he  duly  paid. 
And  only  left  the  plough  to  wield  the  spade. 
He  knew  to  give  each  plant  the  soil  it  needs, 
To  drill  the  ground,  and  cover  close  the  seeds; 
And  could  with  ease  compel  the  wanton  rill 
To  turn,  and  wind,  obedient  to  his  will. 
There  flourish'd  star-wort,  and  the  branching  beet, 
The  sorrel  acid,  and  the  mallow  sweet. 
The  skirret,  and  the  leak's  aspiring  kind, 
The  noxious  poppy— quencher  of  the  mind  I 
Salubrious  sequel  of  a  sumptuous  board, 
The  lettuce,  and  the  long  huge  bellied  gourd ; 
But  these  (for  none  his  appetite  controul'd 
With  stricter  sway)  the  thrifty  rustic  sold; 
With  broom-twigs  neatly  bound,  each  kind  apart, 
He  bore  them  ever  to  the  public  mart ; 
WTience,  laden  still,  but  with  a  lighter  load 
Of  cash  well-earn'd,  he  took  his  homeward  road, 
Expending  seldom,  ere  he  quitted  Rome, 
His  gains,  in  flesh-meat  for  a  feast  at  home* 
There,  at  no  cost,  on  onions  rank  and  red, 
Or  the  curl'd  endive's  bitter  leaf,  he  fed: 


APPENDIX.  199 

On  scallions  sHc'd,  or,  with  a  sensual  gust, 
On  rockets — foul  provocatives  of  lust ! 
Nor  even  shunn'd,  Avith  smarting  gums,  to  press 
Nasturtium — pungent,  face-distorting  niess  I 

Some  such  regale  now  also  in  his  thought. 
With  hasty  steps  his  garden-ground  he  souglit : 
There  delving  with  his  hands,  he  first  displac'd 
Four  plants  of  garlick,  large,  and  rooted  fast; 
The  tender  tops  of  parsley  next  he  culls, 
Then  the  old  rue-bush  shudders  as  he  pulls, 
And  coriander  last  to  these  succeeds. 
That  hangs  on  slightest  threads  her  trembling  seeds, 

Plac'd  near  his  sprightly  fire,  he  now  demands 
The  mortar  at  his  sable  servant's  hands ; 
When,  stripping  all  his  gariick  first,  he  tore 
Th'  exterior  coats,  and  cast  them  on  the  floor, 
Then  cast  away,  with  like  contempt,  the  skin. 
Flimsier  concealment  of  the  cloves  within. 
These  search'd,  and  perfect  found,  he  one  by  one 
Rinc'd,  and  dispos'd  within  the  hollow  stone. 
Salt  added,  and  a  lump  of  salted  cheese. 
With  his  injected  herbs  he  cover'd  these, 
And  tucking  with  his  left  his  tunic  tight, 
And  seizing  fast  the  pestle  with  his  right, 
The  garlick  bruising  first  he  soon  express'd, 
And  mix'd  the  various  juices  of  the  rest. 
He  grinds,  and  by  degrees  his  herbs  below, 
Lost  in  each  other,  their  own  pow'rs  forego, 
And  with  the  cheese  in  compound,  to  the  sight 
Nor  wholly  green  appear,  nor  wholly  white. 
His  nostrils  oft  the  forceful  fume  resent, 
He  curs'd  full  oft  his  dinner  for  its  scent. 
Or  with  wry  faces,  wiping,  as  he  spoke. 
The  trickling  tears,  cried,  "  Vengeance  on  the  smoke  I" 
The  work  proceeds :  not  roughly  turns  he  now 
The  pestle,  but  in  circles  smooth  and  slow. 
With  cautious  hand,  that  grudges  what  it  spills, 
Some  drops  of  olive-oil  he  next  instills  ; 
Then  vinegar,  with  caution  scarcely  less  ; 
And  gatli'ring  to  a  ball  the  medley-mess, 
J-,ait,  with  two  fingers  frugally  applied, 
iSweeps  the  small  remnant  from  the  mortar's  side, 


200  APPENDIX. 

And  thus  complete  in  figure  and  in  kind, 
Obtains  at  length  the  sallad  he  design'd. 

And  now  black  Cybale  before  him  stands, 
The  cake  drawn  newly  glowing  in  her  hands  ; 
He  glad  receives  it,  chasing  far  away 
All  fears  of  famine,  for  the  passing  day : 
His  legs  enclos'd  in  buskins,  and  his  head 
In  its  tough  casque  of  leather,  forth  he  led 
And  yok'd  his  steers,  a  dull  obedient  pair, 
Then  drove  a-field,  and  plung'd  the  pointed  share. 


APPENDIX. 

(No.  4.) 


Translations  froni  various  Latin  Poems  of  Vincent  Bournti 
and  a  few  Epigrams  of  Oxven. 


The  Thracian. 

1  HRACIAN  parents,  at  his  birth, 
Mourn  their  babe  with  many  a  tear, 

But  with  undissembled  mirth, 
Place  him  breathless  on  his  bier. 

Greece  and  Rome,  with  equal  scornj 
"  Oh  the  savages  !"  exclaim, 

Whether  they  rejoice  or  moui'n, 
Well-entitled  to  the  name ! 

But  the  cause  of  this  concern 

And  this  pleasure,  would  tliey  trace. 

Even  they  might  somewhat  learn 
From  the  savages  of  Thrace. 


THRAX. 

ThreiciiUTi  infantem,  cum  hicem  intravit  et  auras, 

Fletibus  excepit  nijestus  uterque  parens. 
Threicium  infantem,  cum  luce  exivit  et  auri» 

Extulit  ad  funus  Ixtus  uterque  parens. 
Interea  tu  Roma ;  et  tu  tibi  Grjecia  plaudens, 

Dicitis,  hxc  vera  est  Thraica  barbarics. 
Lsetitia:  causa/n,  causamque  exquirite  luctus; 

Vosque  est  quod  doceat  Thraica  barbaries. 

VOL.  II.  9«l 


202  APPENDIX. 


Reciprocal  Kindneaa,  the  primary  Laiv  of  Nature, 

Androcles,  from  his  injur'd  Lord,  in  dread 
Of  instant  death,  to  Lybia's  desert  fled ; 
Tir'd  with  his  toilsome  flight,  and  parch 'd  with  heatj 
He  spied,  at  length,  a  cavern's  cool  retreat. 
But  scarce  had  given  to  rest  his  weary  frame, 
When,  hugest  of  its  kind,  a  lion  came  : 
He  roar'd  approaching ;  but  the  savage  din 
To  plaintive  murmurs  chang'd,  arriv'd  within, 
And  with  expressive  looks  his  lifted  paw 
Presenting,  aid  implor'd  from  whom  he  saw. 
The  fugitive,  through  terror  at  a  stand, 
Dar'd  not  awhile  affbi-d  his  trembling  hand, 
But  bolder  grown  at  length,  inherent  found 
A  pointed  thoi-n,  and  drew  it  from  the  woimd. 
The  cure  was  wrought ;  he  wip'd  the  sanious  flood, 
And  firm  and  free  from  pain  the  lion  stood. 
Again  he  seeks  the  wilds,  and  day  by  day 
Regales  his  inmate  with  the  parted  prey. 
Nor  he  disdains  the  dole,  though  unprepar'd, 
Spread  on  the  gi-ound,  and  with  a  lion  shar'd. 
But  thus  to  live — still  lost,  sequester'd  still — 
Scarce  seem'd  his  lord's  revenge  an  heavier  ill. 


JMutua  Eenevolentia  primaria  Lex  Naturx  est. 

Per  Libyse  Androcles  siccas  errabat  arenas, 

Qui  vagus  iratum  fugerat  exul  herum. 
Lassato  tandem  fractoque  labore  viarum, 

Ad  scopuli  patuit  cceca  caveina  latus. 
Hanc  subit ;  et  placids  dederat  vix  membra  sopori 

Cum  subito  immanis  rugat  ad  antra  leo: 
lUe  pedem  attollens  Issum,  et  miserabile  murmur 

Edens,  qua  poterat  voce,  precatur  opem. 
Perculsus  novitate  rei,  incertusque  timore, 

Vix  tandem  tremulas  admovet  erro  manus : 
Et  spinam  explorans  (nam  fixa  in  vulnere  spina 

Hccrebat)  cauto  moUiter  ungue  trahit : 
Condnuo  dolor  omnis  abit,  teter  fluit  humor; 

Et  coit,  absterso  sanguine,  rupta  cutis: 
Nunc  iterum  sylvas  dumosque  peragrat ;  et  affert 

Providus  assiduas  hospes  ad  antra  dapcs. 


APPENDIX.  203 

Home,  native  home  ! — Oh  might  he  but  repaii' !— . 

He  must,  he  will,  though  death  attends  him  there. 

He  goes,  and  doom'd  to  perish  on  the  sands 

Of  the  full  theatre  unpitied  stands  ! 

When,  lo  !  the  self-same  lion  from  his  cage 

Flies  to  devour  him,  famish'd  into  rage. 

He  flies,  but  viewing  in  his  purposed  prey 

The  man,  his  healer,  pauses  on  his  way, 

And,  soften'd  by  remembrance  into  sweet 

And  kind  composure,  crouches  at  his  feet. 

Mute  with  astonishment  th'  assembly  gaze ; 
But  why,  ye  Romans  ?  Whence  your  mute  amaze  ? 
All  this  is  nat'ral — Nature  bade  him  rend 
An  enemy ;  she  bids  him  spare  a  friend. 

A  Manual  more  ancient  than  the  Art  of  Printings  and  not  to  be 
found  in  any  Catalogue, 

Thei-e  is  a  book,  which  we  may  call 

(Its  excellence  is  such) 
Alone  a  library,  though  small ; 

The  ladies  thumb  it  much. 

Juxta  epulis  accumbit  homo  conviva  leonis, 

Nee  crudos  dubitat  participare  cibos. 
Qiiis  tamen  ista  ferat  desert?e  taedia  v'lix.  I 

Vix  furor  ultoris  tristior  asset  heri 
Devotum  certis  caput  objectare  periclis 

Et  patrios  statuit  rursus  adire  lares. 
Traditur  hie,  feri  facturus  speotacula  plebi, 

Accipit  et  miserum  tristis  arena  reum. 
Irruit  e  caveis  fors  idem  impastus  et  acer, 

Et  medicum  attonito  suspicit  ore  leo. 
Suspicit,  et  veterem  agnoscens  vetus  hospes  amicum 

Decumbit  notos  blandulus  ante  pedes. 
Quid  vero  perculsi  aniniis,  stupuere  quirltes? 

Ecquid  prodigii,  territa  Roma,  vides? 
Unius  naturK  opus  est ;  ea  sola  furorem 

Sumere  (]use  jussit,  ponere  sola  jubet. 

Manuale  Typographia  mnni  antiquius  mdli  unpiam  Libronmi  insertum 
Catalogo. 
Exigu'.is  liber  est,  muliebri  creber  in  usu. 
Per  se  (jui  dici  bibliotbcca  potest. 


r 


204  APPENDIX* 

T^^ords  none,-  things  num'rous  it  contains  J 

And,  things  with  words  compar'd, 
Wlio  needs  be  told,  that  has  his  brains, 

^Vhich  merits  most  regard  ? 

Oflimes  its  leaves  of  scarlet  hue 

A  goiden  edging  boast; 
And  open'd,  it  cisplays  to  view  if 

Twelve  pages  at  the  most. 

Nor  name    nor  title,  stamp'd  behind 

Adorns  its  outer  part ; 
But  all  within  'tis  richly  iin'd, 

A  mi'.gaziiie  of  art. 

The  whitest  hands  that  secret  hoard 

Ofl  visit ;  and  the  fair 
Preserve  it  in  their  bosoms  stor'd, 

As  with  a  miser's  care. 

Thtnce  implements  cf  ev'ry  size, 

And  foriTi'd  for  various  use, 
(They  need  but  to  consult  their  eyes) 

They  readily  produce. 

The  largest  and  the  longest  kind 

Possess  the  foremost  page, 
A  sort  most  needed  by  the  blind, 

Or  nearly  such  from  age. 


Copla  verborum  non  est,  sed  copla  rerum ; 

Co]>ia  (quod  nemo  deneget)  utilior. 
Rvibris  consuitur  pannis ;  fors  texitur  auro ; 

Bis  sexta  ad  surnmum  pagina  claiidit  opus. 
Nil  habet  a  tergo  titulive  aut  nominis ;  intus 

Thesauros  artis  servat,  et  intus  opes : 
Intus  opes,  qux  nympha  sinu  pulcherrima  gestet, 

Qiias  nive  candidior  tractet  ametque  nanus. 
Quando  msti'uiTientum  prjesens  sibi  postulat  usus, 

Majusve,  aui  operis.pro  ratione,  minus. 
Et  gentre  ct  modulo  diversa  habet  arma,  gradatim 

Digesta,  ad ,  miraeros  aitenuata  sues. 


APPENDIX.  305 


The  fuU-charg'd  leaf,  which  next  ensues, 

Presents  in  bright  array 
The  smaller  sort,  which  matrons  use, 

Not  quite  so  blind  as  they. 

The  third,  the  fourth,  the  fifth  supply 

What  their  occasions  ask, 
Who  with  a  more  discerning  eye 

Perform  a  nicer  task. 

But  still  with  regular  decrease, 

From  size  to  size  they  fall. 
In  ev'ry  leaf  grow  less  and  less  j 

The  last  are  least  of  all. 

Oh  !  what  a  fund  of  genius,  pent 

In  narrow  space,  is  here  ? 
This  volume's  method  and  intent, 

How  luminous  and  clear  ! 

It  leaves  no  reader  at  a  loss 

Or  pos'd,  whoever  reads; 
No  commentator's  tedious  gloss, 

Nor  even  index  needs. 

Search  Bodley's  many  thousands  o'er  ! 

No  book  is  treasur'd  there. 
Nor  yet  in  Granta's  num'rous  store, 

That  may  with  this  compare. 


Primum  enchiridii  folium  majuscula  profert, 

Qualia  qua:  bloeso  est  lumine  poscat  anus 
Qiiod  sequitur  folium,  matronis  arma  ministrat, 

Dicere  quje  magnis  proximiora  licet. 
Tertium,  item  quartum,  quintumque  minuscula  supplet, 

Sed  non  ejusdem  singula  quoeque  loci. 
Disposita  ordinibus  certis,  discrimina  servant; 

Qux  sibi  conveniant,  seligat  unde  nurus. 
Ultima  quae  restant  quae  multa  minutula  nympha 

Dicit,  sunt  sexti  divitae  folii. 
Qiiantillo  in  spatio  doctrina  O  !  quanta  latescit ! 

Qiiam  tamen  obscuram  vix  brevitate  voces. 
Non  est  interpres,  non  est  commentaiius  ulhia, 

Aut  index  ;  tarn  sunt  omr.iu  i)erbpicua. 


206  APPENDIX, 

No  ! — Rival  none  in  either  host 
Of  this  was  ever  seen, 

Or  that  contents  could  justly  boast 
So  brilliant  and  so  keen. 


An  Mnigma* 

A  needle  small,  as  small  can  be, 
In  bulk  and  use  surpasses  me, 

Nor  is  my  purchase  dear; 
For  little,  and  almost  for  nought, 
As  many  of  my  kind  are  bought 

As  days  are  in  the  year. 

Yet  though  but  little  use  we  boast, 
And  are  procured  at  little  cost, 

The  labour  is  not  light. 
Nor  few  artificers  it  asks. 
All  skilful  in  their  sev'ral  tasks, 

To  fashion  us  aright. 

One  fuses  metal  o'er  the  fire, 
A  second  draws  it  into  wire, 

The  shears  another  plies, 
Who  clips  in  lengths  the  brazen  thread 
For  him,  who,  chafing  every  shred, 

Gives  all  an  equal  size. 

^tatem  ad  quamvis,  ad  captum  ita  fingitur  omnem, 

Ut  nihil  auxilii  postiilet  inde  liber. 
Millia  libronim  numerat  perplura;  nee  ullum 

Bodlaei  huic  jactat  bibliotheca  parem. 
Millia  Csesareo  numerat  quoque  munere  Granta, 

Hsec  tamen  est  inter  millia  tak  nihil. 
Non  est,  non  istis  author  dc  millibus  unu», 

Cui  tanta  ingenii  vis,  vel  acumen  inest. 

^ENIGMA. 
Parvula  res,  et  acu  minor  est,  et  ineptior  usu : 

Qiiotque  dies  annus,  tot  tibi  drachma  dabit. 
Sed  licet  exigui  pretii  minimique  valoris, 

Ecce,  quot  artificum  postulat  ilia  manus! 
Unius  in  primis  cura  est  conilare  metallum  i 

In  longa  alterius  ducere  fila  labor. 


APPENDIX.  207 

A  fifth  prepares,  exact  and  round, 

Tlie  knob,  with  which  it  must  be  crown'd  ; 

His  foUow'r  makes  it  fast ; 
And  with  his  mallet  and  his  file 
To  shape  the  point,  employs  a  while 

The  seventh,  and  the  last. 

Now,  therefore,  CEdipus!  declare 
What  creature,  wonderful,  and  rare, 

A  process,  that  obtains 
Its  purpose  with  so  much  ado. 
At  last  produces  J — Tell  me  true, 

And  take  me  for  your  pains ! 

S/iarrows  self-domesticated  in  Trinity  College^  Cambridge, 

None  ever  shar'd  the  social  feast, 
Or  as  an  inmate,  or  a  guest, 
Beneath  the  celebrated  dome 
Where  once  Sir  Isaac  had  his  home. 
Who  saw  not,  (and  with  some  delight 
Perhaps  he  view'd  the  novel  sight) 
How  num'rous,  at  the  tables  there, 
The  sparrows  beg  their  daily  fare. 
For  there,  in  e\'ery  nook  and  cell. 
Where  such  a  family  may  dwell, 

Tertius  in  partes  resecat,  quartusque  resecturn 

Perpolit  ad  modulos  attenuatque  datos. 
Est  quintitornare  caput,  quod  sextus  adaptet ; 

Septimus  in  punctum  cudit  et  exacuit. 
His  tandem  auxiliis  ita  res  procedit,  ut  omnes 

Ad  numeros  ingens  perficiatur  opus. 
Quse  tanti  ingenii  quae  tanti  est  summa  laboris  ? 

Si  mihi  respondes  Gidipe,  tota  tua  est. 

Passeres  indigent  Col.  Trin.  Cant.  Cmmnensales. 

Incola  qui  norit  sedes,  aut  viserit  hospes, 

Newtoni  egregii  quas  celebravit  honos; 
Vidltque  et  mcminit,  loetus  fortasse  videndo. 

Q_uam  multa  ad  mensas  advolitarit  avis. 
lUe  nee  ignorat,  nidos  ut,  vere  Ineunte, 

Tecta  per  et  forulos  et  tabuiata  struat. 


308  APPENDIX. 

Sure  as  the  vernal  season  comes 
Their  nests  they  weave  in  hope  of  crUmbs, 
Which  kindly  given,  may  serve  with  food 
Convenient  their  unfeather'd  brood ; 
And  oft  as  with  its  summons  clear 
The  warning  bell  salutes  their  ear, 
Sagacious  list'ners  to  the  sound. 
They  flock  from  all  the  fields  around, 
To  reach  the  hospitable  hall. 
None  more  attentive  to  the  call. 
Arriv'd,  the  pensionary  band, 
Hopping  and  chirping,  close  at  hand, 
Solicit  what  they  soon  receive, 
The  sprinkled,  plenteous  donative. 
Thus  is  a  multitude,  though  large, 
Supported  at  a  trivial  charge  ; 
A  single  doit  would  overpay 
Th'  expenditure  of  every  day. 
And  Avho  can  grudge  so  small  a  grace 
To  suppliants,  natives  of  the  place  ? 

Familiarity  Dangerous. 

As  in  her  ancient  mistress'  lap, 

The  youthful  tabby  lay, 
They  gave  each  other  many  a  tap, 

Alike  dispos'd  to  play. 

Ut  coram  educat  teneros  ad  pabula  foetus. " 

Et'pascat  micis,  quas  det  arnica  manus. 
Convivas  quoties  campaiix  ad  prandia  pulsus 

Convocat,  baud  epulis  certlor  hospes  adest. 
Continuo  jucusda  simul  vox  fertuv  ad  aures, 

Vicinos  passer  quisque  relinquit  agros 
Hospitium  ad  notum  properatur ;  et  ordine  stantes 

Expectant  panis  fragmina  quisque  sua. 
IIos  tamen,  hos  omnes,  vix  uno  largior  asse 

Sumptus  per  totam  pascit  alitque  diem. 
Hunc  unum,  hunc  modicum  (nee  quisquam  inviderit  assem) 

Indigent  hospitii  jure,  merentur  aves. 

Nulli  te  facias  nimis  wJalcui. 

Palpat  heram  felis,  gremio  recubans  in  anili ; 
Qiiam  semel  atque  iterum  Lydia  palpat  hem. 


APPENDIX.  209 


But  strife  ensues.    Puss  waxes  warm, 

And  with  protruded  claws 
Ploughs  all  the  length  of  Lydia's  arm, 

Mere  wantonness  the  cause. 

At  once,  resentful  of  the  deed, 
She  shakes  her  to  the  ground 

With  many  a  threat,  that  she  shall  bleed 
With  still  a  deeper  wound. 

But  Lydia,  bid  thy  fury  rest ! 

It  was  a  venial  stroke, 
For  she  that  will  with  kittens  jest 

Should  bear  a  kitten's  joke. 


Invitation  to  the  Redbreast. 

Sweet  bird,  whom  the  winter  constrains— 

And  seldom  another  it  can — 
To  seek  a  retreat,  while  he  reigns, 

In  the  well-shelter'd  dwellings  of  man, 
Who  never  can'st  seem  to  intrude. 

Though  in  all  places  equally  free. 
Come,  oft  as  the  season  is  rude ! 

Thou  art  sure  to  be  welcome  to  me. 

At  sight  of  the  first  feeble  ray 
That  pierces  the  clouds  of  the  east, 

To  inveigle  thee  eveiy  day 
My  window  shall  show  thee  a  feast. 


Ludum  lis  sequitur ;  nam  totos  exerit  ungues, 

Et  longo  lacerat  vulnere  felis  anum. 
Continue  cxardens  grenjio  muliercula  felem 

Nee  gravibus  multis  excutit  absque  minis. 
Quod  tamen  baud  a;quum  est — si  vult  cum  fele  jocari, 

Felinum  debet  Lydia  ferre  jocum. 

Ad  Jxubeculatn  Invitatio. 

Hospes  avis,  conviva  domo  gratissima  cuivis, 
Quam  bruma  hunianam  quserere  cogit  opem  ; 

Hue  OI  hyberui  fugias  ut  frigora  coeli, 
Confuge,  et  incolumis  sub  lare  viye  meo! 
VOL.   II.  KC 


m  APPENDIX. 

For,  taught  by  experience,  I  know 
Thee  mindful  of  benefit  long; 

And  that,  thankful  for  all  I  bestow, 
Thou  wilt  pay  me  with  many  a  song. 

Then,  soon  as  the  swell  of  the  buds 

Bespeaks  the  renewal  of  spring, 
Fly  hence,  if  thou  wilt,  to  the  woods, 

Or  where  it  shall  please  thee  to  sing : 
And  should'st  thou,  compell'd  by  a  frost, 

Come  again  to  my  window  or  door, 
Doubt  not  an  affectionate  host ! 

Only  pay,  as  thou  payd'st  me  before. 

Thus  music  must  needs  be  confest 

To  flow  from  a  fountain  above, 
Else  how  should  it  work  in  the  breast 

Unchangeable  friendship  and  love? 
And  who  on  the  globe  can  be  found, 

Save  your  generations  and  ours, 
That  can  be  delighted  by  sound, 

Or  boasts  any  musical  pow'rs  ? 


Unde  tuam  esuriem  releves,  alimenta  fenestrae 

Apponam,  quoties  itque  reditque  dies. 
Usu  etenim  edidici,  quod  grato  alimenta  rependes 

Cantu,  quae  dederit  cunque  benigna  manus. 
Vere  novo  tepids  spirant  cum  molliter  aurae, 

Et  novus  in  quavis  arbore  vernat  honos, 
Pro  libitu  ad  lucos  redeas,  sylvasque  revisas, 

Laeta  quibus  resonat  musica,  parque  tuac, 
Sin  iterum,  sin  forte  iterum,  incleinentia  brumac 

Ad  mea  dilectam  tecta  reducet  avem 
Esto,  redux,  grato  memor  esto  rependere  cantu 

Pabiila,  qu£e  dederit  cunque  benigna  manus. 
Vis  hinc  harmoniae,  numerorum  hinc  sacra  potestas 

Conspicitur,  nusquam  conspicienda  magis, 
Vincula  quod  stabilis  firmissima  nectit  amoris, 

Vincula  vix  longa  dissocianda  die. 
Captat,  et  incantat  blando  oblectamiue  musa 

Humanum  pariter  pennigerumque  genus ; 
Nos  homines  et  aves,  quotcunque  animantia  vlvunt, 

Nos  soli  harmoniae  geus  studiosa  sumus. 


APPENDIX.  211 

Strada's  JVightingaCe, 
The  shepherd  touch'd  his  reed ;  sweet  Philomel 

Essay'd,  and  oft  essay'd  to  eatch  the  strain, 
And  treasuring,  as  on  her  ear  they  fell. 

The  numbers,  echo'd  note  for  note  again. 

The  peevish  youth,  who  ne'er  had  found  before 

A  rival  of  his  skill,  indignant  heard, 
And  soon  (for  various  was  his  tuneful  store) 

In  loftier  tones  defy'd  the  simple  bird. 

She  dar'd  the  task,  and  rising  as  he  rose, 
With  all  the  force  that  passion  gives,  inspir'd, 

Return 'd  the  sounds  awhile,  but  in  the  close 
Exhausted  fell,  and  at  his  feet  expir'd. 

Thus  strength,  not  skill  prevail'd.    O  fatal  strife  1 

By  the  poor  songstress  playfully  begun ; 
And  O  sad  victory  !  which  cost  thy  life^r^ 

And  he  may  wish  that  he  had  never  won  ! 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  a  Lady  who  lived  one  hundred  Years,  and 
died  on  her  Birth-day  in  1728. 
Ancient  dame,  how  wide  and  vast, 

To  a  race  like  ours  appears, 
Rounded  to  an  orb  at  last. 
All  thy  multitude  of  years ! 

Stradx  Philomela. 
Pastorem  audivit  calamis  Philomela  camentem, 

Et  voluit  tenues  ipsa  referre  modos ; 
Il)sa  retentavit  numeros,  didicitque  retentans 

Argutum  fida  reddere  voce  melos. 
Pastor  inassuetus  rivalem  ferre,  misellam 

Grandius  ad  carmen  provocat,  urget  avem. 
Tuque  etiam  in  modulos  siirgis  Philomela;  sed  impar 

Viribus  heu  impar,  examinisque  cadis. 
Durum  certamem  !  tristia  victoria!  cantum 

Mahierit  pastor  non  suj)crasse  tiium. 

ANUS  S/ECULARIS 
^Lt  justann  centinn  annoruvi  tetatem,  ipso  die  natali,  cxplc\it,  et  dauslt 
anno  1728. 
Singiilaris  prodiglum  O  senectie, 
Et  novum  exemplum  diuturnitatis, 
Cujus  anuorum  series  in  amplum 

dcslnit  ovbera! 


m  APPENDIX. 

We,  the  herd  of  human  kind, 

Frailer  and  of  feebler  pow'rs; 
We,  to  narrow  bounds  confin'd, 

Soon  exhaust  the  sum  of  ours. 

Death's  delicious  banquet — we 

Perish  even  from  the  womb ; 
Swifter  than  a  shadow  flee. 

Nourish 'd,  but  to  feed  the  tomb. 

Seeds  of  merciless  disease 

Lurk  in  all  that  we  enjoy; 
Some  that  waste  us  by  degrees. 

Some  that  suddenly  destroy. 

And  if  life  o'erleap  the  bourn 

Common  to  the  sons  of  men, 
What  remains,  but  that  we  mourn, 

Dream,  and  doat,  and  drivel  Uien  ? 

Fast  as  moons  can  wax  and  wain 
Sorrow  comes ;  and  while  we  groan, 

Pant  with  anguish,  and  complain, 
Half  our  years  are  fled  and  gone. 

Vulgus  infelix  hominum,  dies  en ! 
Computo  quam  dispare  computamus ! 
Quam  tun.  a  summa  procul  est  remota 

summula  nostra. 
Pabulum  nos  luxuriesque  lethi, 
Nos,  simul  nati,  inc.ipimus  perire, 
Nos  statim  a  cunis  cita  destinamur 

praeda  sepulchro. 
Occulit  mors  insidias,  ubi  vix, 
Vix  opinari  est,  rapidaeve  febris 
Vim  repentinam,  aiit  male  pertinacis 

semina  moibi. 
Sin  brevem  possit  siiperare  vita 
Terminum,  quicqiiid  superest,  vacivum, 
lUud  ignavis  superest  et  imbe- 


cillibus  annis. 


Detrahunt  multum,  minuuntqiie  sorti 
JNIorbidi  questus  gemitusque  anheli ; 
Ad  parem  crescunt  numerum  diesque 


atque  dolorcai 


APPENDIX.  2U 


If  a  few,  (to  few  'tis  giv'n) 
Ling'ring  on  tliis  earthly  stage, 

Creep,  and  halt  with  steps  unev'n, 
To  the  period  of  an  age  :— 

Wherefore  live  they  but  to  see 
Cunning,  arrogance,  and  force? 

Sights,  lamented  much  by  thee. 
Holding  their  accustom'd  course! 

Oft'  was  seen,  in  ages  past, 
All  that  we  with  wonder  view  j 

Often  shall  be  to  the  last; 
Earth  produces  nothing  new. 

Thee  we  gratulate ;  content, 
Should  propitious  Heav'n  design 

Life  for  us,  as  calmly  spent, 
Though  but  half  the  length  of  thine. 


The  Cause  won. 

Two  neighbours  furiously  dispute  j 
A  field — the  subject  of  the  suit. 


Si  quis  hxc  vitet  (quotiis  ille  quisque  est!) 

Et  gradu  pergendo  laborioso 

Ad  tuum,  fortasse  tuum,  moretur 

reptilis  oeviira ! 
At  videt,  mxstum  tibi  saepe  visum,  in- 
Jurias,  vim,  furta,  dolos,  et  inso- 
Lentiam,  quo  semper  eunt,  eodem 


Nil  inest  rebus  novitatis  ;  et  quod 
Uspiam  est  nugarum  et  ineptiarum, 
Unius  volvi  videt,  et  revolvi 

Integram  jetatam  tibi  gratulamur; 
Et  dari  nobis  satis  scstimamus. 
Si  tuam,  saltern  vacuam  querelis 


Victoria  Forensis. 
Caio  cum  Titio  lis  et  vexatio  longa 
Sunt  de  vicini  proprietate  soli. 


ire  tenore. 


civculus  jEvi. 


dimidiemui. 


SW  APPENDIX. 

Trivial  the  spot,  yet  such  the  rage 

With  which  the  combatants  engage, 

'Twere  hard  to  tell  who  covets  most 

The  prize — at  whatsoever  cost. 

The  pleadings  swell.     Words  still  suffice* 

No  single  word  but  has  its  price. 

No  term  but  yields  some  fair  pretence, 

For  novel  and  increas'd  expense. 

Defendant  thus  becomes  a  name, 
Which  he  that  bore  it  may  disclaim; 
Since  both,  in  one  description  blended. 
Are  plaintiffs — when  the  suit  is  ended. 


The  Silk-  Worm, 

The  beams  of  April,  ere  it  goes, 
A  worm,  scarce  visible,  disclose; 
All  winter  long  content  to  dwell 
The  tenant  of  his  native  shell. 
The  same  prolific  season  gives, 
The  sustenance  by  which  he  lives^ 
The  mulb'ry-leaf,  a  simple  store, 
That  serves  him — till  he  needs  no  more ! 
For,  his  dimensions  once  complete, 
Thenceforth  none  ever  sees  him  eat ; 


Protinns  ingentes  animos  in  jurgia  sumunt 

Utraque  vincendi  pars  studiosa  nirriis. 
-Lis  tuniet  in  schedulas,  et  jam  verbosior,  et  jamr 

Nee  verbum  quodvis  asse  minoris  emunt. 
Pra:terunt  menses,  et  terminus  alter  et  alter ; 

Qiiisque  novos  sumptiis  alter  et  alter,  habent. 
lUe  querens,  hie  respondens  pendente  voeatur 

Lite;  sed  ad  finem  litis,  uterqvie  querens. 

BOMBYX. 

Fine  sub  Aprilis  Bombyx  excluditur  ovo, 
Reptilis  exiguo  corpore  vermiculus. 

Frondibus  hie  mori,  volvox  dum  fiat  adultus, 
Gnaviter  ineumbens,  dum  satietur,  edit. 

Crescendo  ad  justum  cum  jam  maturuit  scvnm, 
Incipit  artifici  stamine  textor  opus : 


APPENDIX.  ,. .  .  .  .^     His 


Though,  till  his  growing  time  be  past, 

Scarce  ever  is  he  seen  to  fast. 

That  hour  arriv'd,  his  work  begins; 

He  spins  and  weaves,  and  weaves  and  spins, 

Till  circle  upon  circle  wound 

Careless  around  him  and  around, 

Conceals  him  with  a  veil,  though  slight, 

Impervious  to  the  keenest  sight. 

Thus  self-enclos'd,  as  in  a  cask, 

At  length  he  finishes  his  task; 

And,  though  a  worm,  when  he  was  lost, 

Or  caterpillar  at  the  most, 

When  next  we  see  him,  wings  he  wears, 

And  in  papilio-pomp  appears  ; 

Becomes  oviparous ;  supplies 

With  future  worms  and  future  flies 

The  next  ensuing  year; — and  dies  J 

The  Innocent  Thief. 

Not  a  flow'r  can  be  found  in  the  fields, 
Or  the  spot  that  we  till  for  our  pleasure, 

From  the  largest  to  least,  but  it  yields 
The  bee,  never-weary 'd,  a  treasure. 

Scarce  any  she  quits  unexplor'd. 

With  a  diligence  truly  exact ; 
Yet,  steal  what  she  may  for  her  hoard. 

Leaves  evidence — none  of  the  fact . 


Filaque  condensans  filis,  orbem  implicat  orbi 

Et  sensim  in  gyris  conclitus  ipse  latet. 
Inque  cadi  teretem  formam  se  coUigit,  unde 

Egrediens  pennas  papilionis  habet. 
Fitque  parens  tandem,  factumque  reponit  in  ovi« 

Hoc  demum  extremo  munere  functus  obit. 
Quotquot  in  hac  nostra  spirant  animalia  terra, 

Nulli  est  vel  brevior  vita,  vel  utilior. 

Jnnocms  Pradatrix. 
Sedula  per  campos  nuUo  defessa  labore, 

In  cella  ut  stipet  mella  vagatur  apis: 
Purpurcumvix  tlorem  opifex  praetervolat  unum, 

Innumeras  inter  quas  alit  hortus  opes; 


216  APPENDIX. 

Her  lucrative  task  she  pursues, 
And  pilfers  with  so  much  address, 

That  none  of  their  odour  they  lose, 
Nor  charm  by  their  beauty  the  less. 

Not  thus  inoffensively  preys 
The  canker-worm  ;  in-dwelling  foe  ! 

His  voracity  not  thus  allays 
The  sparrow,  the  finch,  or  the  crow. 

The  worm,  more  expensively  fed. 
The  pride  of  the  garden  devours  ; 

And  birds  pick  the  seed  from  the  bed. 
Still  less  to  be  spar'd  than  the  flow'rs. 

But  she,  with  such  delicate  skill. 
Her  pillage  so  fits  for  our  use, 

That  the  chymist  in  vain  with  his  still 
Would  labour  the  like  to  produce. 

Then  grudge  not  her  temperate  meals, 
Nor  a  benefit  blame  as  a  theft; 

Since,  stole  she  not  all  that  she  steals, 
Neither  honey,  nor  wax  would  be  left. 


Herbula  gramineis  vix  una  innascltur  agris, 

Thesauri  unde  aliquid  non  studiosa  legit. 
A  flore  ad  florem  transit,  moUique  volando 

Delibat  tactu  suave  quod  intus  habent. 
Omnia  delibat,  parce  sed  et  omnia,  furti 

Ut  ne  vel  minimum  videris  indicium. 
Omnia  degustat  tarn  parce,  ut  gratia  nulla 

Floribus,  ut  nullus  diminuatur  odor. 
Non  ita  praedantur  modice  bruchique  et  erucacj 

Non  ista  hortorum  maxima  pestis  aves : 
Non  ita  raptores  corvi,  quorum  improba  rostr:; 

Despoliant  agros,  effodiuntque  sata. 
Succos  immiscens  succis,  ita  suaviter  omnes 

Temperat,  ut  dederit  chymia  nulla  pares. 
Vix  furtum  est  illud,  dicive  injuria  debet, 

(^lod  cera,  et  multo  melle  rependit  apis. 


APPENDIX.  217 

Denner's  Old-  Woman, 

In  this  mimic  form  of  a  matron  in  years, 

How  plainly  the  pencil  of  Denner  appears ! 

The  matron  herself,  in  whose  old  age  we  see 

Not  a  trace  of  decline,  what  a  wonder  is  she ! 

No  dimness  of  eye,  and  no  cheek  hanging  low  ! 

No  wrinkle,  or  deep-furrow'd  frown  on  tlie  brow  ! 

Her  forehead,  indeed,  is  here  circled  around 

With  locks  like  the  ribbon  with  which  they  are  bound  } 

WTiile  glossy,  and  smooth,  and  as  soft  as  the  skin 

Of  a  delicate  peach,  is  the  down  of  her  chin  : 

But  nothing  unpleasant,  or  sad,  or  severe, 

Or  that  indicates  life  in  its  winter — is  here  J 

Yet  all  is  exjiress'd,  with  fidelity  due. 

Nor  a  pimple,  or  freckle,  conceal'd  from  the  view. 

Many  fond  of  new  sights,  or  who  cherish  a  taste 
For  the  labours  of  art,  to  this  spectacle  haste : 
The  youths  all  agree,  that,  could  old  age  inspire 
The  passion  of  love,  her's  would  kindle  the  fire : 
And  the  matrons,  with  pleasure,  confess  that  they  see 
Ridiculous  nothing,  or  hideous  in  thee. 

Denneri  Amis* 

Doctiim  anus  artificem,  juste  celebrata  fatetur, 

Denneri  pijixic  qiiani  studiosa  manus. 
Nee  stupor  est  oculis,  fronti  iiec  ruga  sevei'a, 

Flaccida  nee  sulcis  pendet  utrinque  gena. 
Nil  habet  illepidum,  niorosum,  aiit  triste  tabella; 

Argentum  capitis  prjeter,  anile  nihil. 
Apparent  nivxi  vittse  sub  margine  cani, 

Fila  colorati  qualia  Seres  habent. 
Lanugo  mentum,  sed  quae  tenuissima,  vcstit ; 

Mollisque,  et  quails  Persica  mala  tcgit. 
Nulla  vel  e  minimis  fugiunt  spiracula  visum  ; 

At  neque  lincoiis  de  cutis  ulla  latet. 
Spectatum  veniunt,  novitas  quos  allicit  usquam, 

Quosque  vel  ingenii  fama,  vel  artis  amor. 
Adveniunt  juvenes  ;  et  anus  si  possit  amari, 
-  Dcnnere,  agnoscunt  hoc  meniisse  tuam. 

*  Diu  publico  fuit  spcctaculo,  egisgia  hacc  tabula  in  area  Palatina  exteiiori,  ju.xta  fanum 
Westtnorasterier.se. 

VOL.  II.  F  f 


il8  APPENDIX. 

The  nymphs  for  themselves  scarcely  hope  a  decline, 
Oh  wonderful  woman  1  as  placid  as  thine. 

Strange  magic  of  art !  which  the  youth  can  engage 
To  peruse,  half  enamour 'd,  the  features  of  age ; 
And  force  fi-om  the  virgin  a  sigh  of  despair, 
Tliat  she,  when  as  old,  shall  be  equally  fair  I 
How  great  is  the  glory  that  Denner  has  gain'd. 
Since  Apelles  not  more  for  his  Venus  obtain'd  I 

The  Tears  of  a  Fainter, 
Apelles,  heai'ing  that  his  boy 
Had  just  expir'd — ^his  only  joy  I 
Although  the  sight  with  anguish  tore  him, 
Bade  place  his  dear  remains  before  him. 
He  seiz'd  his  brush,  his  colours  spread; 
And — "  Ohl  my  child,  accept" — he  said, 
"  ('Tis  all  that  I  can  now  bestow,) 
*'  This  tribute  of  a  father's  woe  I" 
Then,  faithful  to  the  two-fold  part, 
Both  of  his  feelings  and  his  aii:. 
He  clos'd  his  eyes,  with  tender  care, 
And  form'd  at  once  a  fellow  pair. 
His  brow,  with  amber  locks  beset, 
And  lips  he  drew,  not  livid  yet ; 
And  shaded  all  that  he  had  done, 
To  a  just  image  of  his  son. 

Adveniimt  hilares  nymphae ;  similemque  scHectam 

Tarn  pulchram  et  placidam  dent  sibi  fata,  rogant 
Matronae  adveniunt,  vetulaeque  fatentur  in  ore 

Qiiod  nihil  horrendum,  ridiculumve  vident. 
Quantus  honos  arti,  per  quam  placet  ipsa  senectus; 

Qir<e  facit,  ut  nymphis  invideatur  anus! 
Pictori  cedit  qu<e  gloria,  cum  nee  Apelli 

Majorem  famam  det  Cytherea  suo ! 

Lacrymte  Pictoris, 
Infantem  audivit  puerum,  sua  gandia,  Apelles 

Intempestivo  fato  obiisse  diem. 
Ille,  licet  tristi  perculsus  imagine  mortis, 

Proferri  in  medium  corpus  inane  jubet. 
Et  calamum,  et  succos  poscens,  hos  accipe  luctuc, 

M.-crorem  hunc,  dixit,  nate,  Parentis  habe ! 


APPENDIX.  219 

Thus  far  is  well.     But  view  again 
Tlie  cause  of  thy  paternal  pain  ! 
Thy  melancholy  task  fulfil ! 
It  needs  the  last,  last  touches  still. 
Again  his  pencil's  pow'r  he  tries, 
For  on  his  lips  a  smile  he  spies ; 
And  still  his  cheek  unfaded  shows 
The  deepest  damask  of  the  rose. 
Then,  heedful  to  the  finish'd  whole, 
With  fondest  eagerness  he  stole, 
'Till  scarce  himself  distinctly  knew 
The  cherub  copy'd  from  the  true. 

Now,  painter,  cease !  thy  task  is  done  ; 
Long  lives  this  image  of  thy  son  : 
Nor  short-liv'd  shall  the  glory  prove. 
Or  of  thy  labour,  or  thy  love. 

The  Maze. 

From  right  to  left,  and  to  and  fro, 
Caught  in  a  labyrinth,  you  go. 
And  turn,  and  turn,  and  turn  again, 
To  solve  the  myst'ry,  but  in  vain. 

Dixit;  et,  ut  clausit,  claiisos  depinxit  ocellos ; 

Officio  pariter  fidiis  utrique  patei- : 
Frontemqiie  et  crines,  nee  adhuc  pallentia  formans 

Oscula,  adumbravit  lungubre  pictor  opus. 
Perge  parens,  mxrendo  tuos  expendere  luctus ; 

Nondiim  opus  absolvit  triste  suprema  manus. 
Vidit  adhuc  moUes  genitor  super  oscularisus; 

Vidit  adhuc  veneres  irrubuisse  genis. 
Et  teneras  raptim  veneres,  blandosque  lepores 

Et  tacitos  risus  transtulit  in  tabulam. 
Pingendo  deslste  tuum  signare  dolorem; 

Filioli  longum  vivet  imago  tui : 
Vivet  et  a;tcrna  vives  tu  laude ;  nee  arte 

Vinccndus  pictor  nee  pietate  pater. 

Spe  Finis, 
Ad  dextram,  ad  locvam,  porro,  retro,  itqilc  redi^quc, 

De])rensum  in  laqueo  quern  lahyrinthus  habet. 
Et  legit  et  rclegit  gressus,  sese  cxplicet  undc, 

Perplexum  quoerens  unue  revolvat  iter. 


22a  APPENDIX. 

Stand  still,  and  breathe,  and  take  from  toe 
A  clue  that  soon  shall  set  you  free  I 
Not  Ariadne,  if  you  met  her. 
Herself  could  serve  you  with  a  better; 
You  enter'd  easily — find  whei-e — . 
And  make  with  ease  your  exit  there  ! 

•No  Sorrow  peculiar  to  the  Sufferer^ 
The  lover,  in  melodious  verses, 
His  singular  distress  rehearses, 
Still  closing  with  the  rueful  cry, 
"  Was  ever  such  a  wretch  as  I?" 
Yes !  thousands  have  endur'd  before 
All  thy  distress ;  some  haply  more. 
Unnumber'd  Corydons  complain, 
And  Strephons,  of  the  like  disdain : 
And  if  thy  Chloe  be  of  steel, 
Too  deaf  to  hear,  too  hard  to  feel ; 
Not  her  alone  that  censure  fits, 
Nor  thou  alone  hast  lost  thy  wits. 

The  Snail. 
To  grass,  or  leaf,  or  fruit,  or  wall. 
The  Snail  sticks  close,  nor  fears  to  fallj 
As  if  he  grew  there,  house  and  all 

together. 

Sta  modo,  respira  paiilum,  simul  accipe  filum ; 

Certius  et  melius  non  Ariadne  dabit, 
Sic  te,  sic  solum,  expedies  errore ;  viarum 

Principium  invenias,  id  tibi  finis  erit. 

Nemo  miser  nisi  comparatus. 
Qiiis  fuit  infelix  adeo  !  quls  perditus  aeque  ! 

Conqueritur  maesto  carmine  tristis  amans. 
Non  novus  hie  questus,  rarovc  auditus ;  amantes 

Deserti  et  spreti  mille  queruntur  idem. 
Fatum  decantas  quod  tu  miserabile,  multus 

Deplorat  multo  cum  Corydone,  Strephon. 
Si  tua  cum  reliquis  confertur  arnica  puellis, 

Non  ea  vel  sola  est  ferrea,  tuve  miser. 

LIMAX. 
Frondibus  et  pomis,  herbisque  tenaciter  hoeret 
I^imax,  et  secum  portat  ubique  domum. 


APPENDIX.  221 


Within  that  house  secure  he  lildes, 
When  clanger  imminent  betides, 
Of  storm,  or  other  liarm  besides 


Give  but  his  horns  the  slightest  touch, 
His  self-collecting  power  is  such, 
He  shrinks  into  his  house,  witlx  much 


of  ^veather. 


displeasure ! 


Where'er  he  dwells,  he  dwells  alone, 
Except  himself  has  chattels  none, 
Well  satisfied  to  be  his  own 


Thus,  hermit-like,  his  life  he  leads, 
Nor  partner  of  his  banquet  needs, 
And  if  he  meets  one,  only  feeds 


whole  treasure. 


the  faster. 


Who  seeks  him  must  be  worse  than  blind, 
(He  and  his  house  are  so  combin'd) 
If  finding  it,  he  fails  to  find 

its  master. 


Tutus  in  hac  sese  occullat,  si  quando  periclum 

Imminent  aut  subitoe  decidit  imber  aqu>-e 
Cornua  vel  leviter  tangas,  se  protinus  in  se 

Cclligit,  in  proprios  contrahiturque  lares. 
Secum  habitat  quacuuque  habitat ;  sibi  tota  supellex ; 

Sols,  quas  adamat,  quasque  reqiiirit  opes. 
Secum  potat,  edit,  dormit;  sibi  in  oedibus  isdem 

Conviva  et  comes  est,  hospes  et  hospitium. 
Limacem,  quacumque  siet,  quacumque  morctur, 

(Si  quis  eum  quoerat)  dixeris  esse  domi. 


APPENDIX. 

EPIGRAMS 
TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  LATIN  OF  OWEN. 


On  one  Ignorant  and  Arrogant, 

Thou  may'st  of  double  ign'rance  boast, 
Wlio  kiiow'st  not  that  thou  nothing  know'st. 

In  ignorantem  arrogantem 
Linum, 

Cafitivum^  Line,  te  tenet  ignorantia  duplex. 
Sets  nihil,  et  nescis  te  quoque  scire  nihil. 


Prudent  Simjilicity. 

That  thou  may'st  injure  no  man,  dove-like  be, 
And  serpent-like,  that  none  may  injure  thee ! 

Prudens  Simplicitas, 

Ut  nulli  nocuisse  velis,  imitare  columbam : 
Scrfientem,  ut  possit  nemo  nocere  tibi. 


To  a  Friend  in  Distress, 

■"^  ^       I  wish  thy  lot,  now  bad,  still  worse,  my  friend, 

For  when  at  worst,  they  say,  things  always  end! 

Ad  Amicum  Pauper  em. 

Est  male  nunc  ?    Utinam  in  pejus  sors  omnia  vertat, 
Succedunt  sumniis  optima  sape  mails. 


When  little  more  than  boy  in  age, 

I  deem'd  myself  almost  a  sage ; 
But  now  seem  worthier  to  be  stil'd, 

For  ignorance — almost  a  child. 

Omnia  me  dum  junior  essetn,  scire putabam, 
Quo  scio  plus,  hoc  me  nunc  scio  scire  minus* 


APPENDIX.  223 


Retaliation. 


The  works  of  ancient  Bards  divine, 

Aulus,  thou  scorn 'st  to  read; 
And  should  posterity  read  thine, 

It  would  be  strange  indeed ! 

Lex  Talionis, 

Majorum  nunguam,  jlule,  legia  monumenta  tiiorum: 
Mirum  est,  posteritas  si  tua  acrifita  legat» 


Sunset  and  Sunrise. 

Contemplate,  when  the  sun  declines. 
Thy  death,  with  deep  reflection  ; 

And  when  again  he  rising  shines, 
Thy  day  of  resurrection. 

De  Ortu  et  Occasu. 

Sole  orient e^  tui  reditus  a  morte  memento  i 
Sis  memor  Occasus)  sole  cadente^  tui } 


'      APPENDIX. 

(No.  5.) 


MONTES  GLACIALESy 

In  oceano  Gennanico  natantes. 

ilN,  qux  prodigia,  ex  oris  allata  remotis, 

Oras  adveniunt  pavefacta  per  squora  nostras ! 

Non  equidem  priscse  sxclum  rediisse  videtur 

Pyrrlije,  cum  Proteus  pecus  altos  visere  montes 

Et  sylvas,  egit.     Sed  tempora  vix  leviora 

Adsunt,  evulsi  quando  radicitus,  alti 

In  mare  descendunt  montes,  fluctusque  pererrant 

Quid  vero  hoc  monstri  est  magis  et  mirabile  visu? 

Splendentes  -video,  ceu  pulchro  ex  ?bre  vel  auro 

Conflatos,  rutilisque  accinctos  undique  gemmis, 

Bacca  cjerulea,  et  flammas  imitante  pyropo. 

Ex  oricnte  adsunt,  ubi  gazas  optima  tellus 

Parturit  omnigenas,  quibus  xva  per  omnia  sumptii 

Ingenti  finxere  sibi  diademata  reges  ? 

Vix  hoc  crediderim.     Non  fallunt  talia  acutos 

Mercatorum  oculos :  prius  et  quam  Httora  Gangis 

Liquissent,  avidis  gratissima  prxda  fuissent. 

Ortos  unde  putemiis  ?    An  illos  Vesvius  atrox 

Protulit,  ignivomisve  ejecit  faucibus  ^Etna  ? 

Luce  micant  propria,  Phxbive,  per  aera  purum 

Nunc  stimulantis  equos,  argentea  tela  retorquent  ? 

Phjebi  luce  micant.     Ventis  et  fiuctibus  altis 

Appulsi,  et  rapidis  subter  currentibus  undis. 

Tandem  non  fallunt  oculos.     Capita  alta  videre  est 

Multa  onerata  nive,  et  canis  conspersa  pruinis. 

Cxtera  sunt  glacies.    Procul  hinc,  ubi  Bruma  fere  omnes 

Contristat  menses,  portenta  hxc  horrida  nobis 

Ilia  sti'ui  voluit.     Quoties  de  culmine  summo 

Clivorum  fluerent  in  littora  prona  soluts 

Sole,  nives,  propei'o  tender.tes  in  mare  cursu, 

IlJa  gelu  fixit.     Paulatim  attoUere  sese 

Mirum  cxpit  opus ;  glacieque  ah  origine  rcrum 

In  glaciem  aggesta,  sublimes  vertice  tandem 


APPENDIX.  225 

iEquavit  monies,  non  crescere  nescia  moles. 
Sic  immensa  diu  stetit,  xtcrnumque  stetisset 
Congeries,  hominum  neque  vi  neque  mobilis  arte, 
Littora  ni  tandem  declinia  deseruisset, 
Pondera  victa  suo      Dilabitur.     Omnia  circum 
Antra  et  saxu  gemunt,  subito  concussa  fragore, 
Dum  ruit  in  pelagum,  tanquam  studiosa  natandi, 
Ingens  tota  strues.     Sic  Delos  dicitur  olim 
Insula  in  /Egaco  fluitasse  erratica  ponto. 
Sed  non  ex  glacie  Delos  :  neque  torpida  Delum 
Bruma  inter  rupes  genuit  nudum  sterilemque. 
Sed  vestita  herbis  erat  ilia,  ornataque  nunquam 
Decidua  lauro  ;  et  Delum  dilexit  Apollo. 
At  vos,  errones  horrendi  et  caligini  digni, 
Cimmeria  Deus  idem  odit.     Natalia  vestra, 
Nubibus  involvens  frontem,  non  ille  tueri 
Sustinuit.     Patrium  vos  ergo  requirite  C3elum  I 
Ite !  Redite !  Timete  moras  ;  ni,  leniter  austi-o 
Spirante,  et  nitidas  Phcebo  jaculante  sagittas 
Hostili  vobis,  pereatis  gurgite  misti ! 

ON  THE  ICE  ISLANDS. 
Seenjloating  in  the  German  Ocean. 

What  portents,  from  what  di.tant  region,  ride, 
Unseen,  till  now,  in  ours,  th'  astonis'd  tide? 
In  ages  past,  old  Proteus,  with  his  droves 
Of  sea-calves,  sought  the  mountains  and  the  groves. 
But  now,  descending  whence  of  late  they  stood, 
Themselves  the  mountains,  seem  to  rove  the  flood. 
Dire  times  were  they,  full-charg'd  with  human  woes. 
And  these,  scarce  less  calamitous  than  those. 
What  view  we  now ?  More  wond'rous  still!  Behold! 
Like  burnish 'd  brass  they  shine,  or  beaten  gold; 
And  all  around  the  pearl's  pure  splendour  show, 
And  all  around  the  ruby's  fiery  glow. 
Come  they  from  India,  where  the  burning  earth, 
All-bounteous,  gives  her  richest  treasures  birth  ; 
And  Avhere  the  costly  gems,  that  beam  around 
The  brows  of  mightiest  potentates,  are  found? 
No ;  never  such  a  countless,  dazzling  store. 
Had  left  unseen  the  Ganges'  peopled-shore. 
Rapacious  hands,  and  ever  watchful  eyes. 
Should  sooner  far  have  mark'd,  and  seiz'd  the  prize. 

VOL.  II.  G  § 


:26  APPENDIX. 

Whence  sprang  they  then?  Ejected  have  they  come 

From  Ves'vius'  or  from  iEtna's  burning  womb  ? 

Thus  shine  they,  self-illum'd,  or  but  display 

The  borrow 'd  splendours  of  a  cloudless  day? 

With  borrow'd  beams  they  shine.     The  gales  that  breathe, 

Now  land-ward,  and  the  current's  force  beneath, 

Have  borne  them  nearer :  and  the  nearer  sight, 

Advantag'd  more,  contemplates  them  aright. 

Their  lofty  summits,  crested  high,  they  show, 

With  mingled  sleet  and  long-incumbent  snow. 

The  rest  is  ice.     Far  hence,  where,  most  severe, 

Bleak  winter  well-nigh  saddens  all  the  year. 

Their  infant  growth  began.     He  bade  arise 

Their  uncouth  forms,  portentous  in  our  eyes. 

Oft'  as,  dissolv'd  by  transient  suns,  the  snow 

Left  the  tall  cliff,  to  join  the  flood  below. 

He  caught  and  curdled,  with  a  freezing  blast, 

The  current,  ere  it  reach'd  the  boundless  waste. 

By  slow  degrees,  uprose  the  wond'rous  pile. 

And  long-successive  ages  roU'd  the  while  ; 

Till,  ceaseless  in  its  growth,  it  claimed  to  stanij 

Tall,  as  its  rival  mountains,  on  the  land. 

Thus  stood — and,  unremoveable  by  skill 

Or  force  of  man,  had  stood  the  structure  still; 

But  that,  though  firmly  fixt,  supplanted  yet 

By  pressure  of  its  own  enormous  weight. 

It  left  the  shelving  beach — and,  with  a  sound 

That  shook  the  bellowing  waves  and  rocks  around, 

Self-launch'd,  and  swiftly,  to  the  briny  wave, 

(As  if  instinct  with  strong  desire  to  lave) 

Down  went  the  pond'rous  mass.    So  bards  of  old, 

How  Delos  swam  th'  /Egean  deep,  have  told. 

But  not  of  ice  was  Delos ;  Delos  bore 

Herb,  fruit,  and  flow 'r.     She,  crown 'd  with  laurel,  wore, 

E'en  under  wint'ry  skies,  a  summer  smile  j 

And  Delos  was  Apollo's  fav'rite  isle. 

But,  horrid  wand'rers  of  the  deep,  to  you 

He  deems  Cimmerian  darkness  only  due : 

Your  hated  birth  he  deign'd  not  to  survey, 

But  scornful  turn'd  his  glorious  eyes  away. 

Hence  !  seek  your  home  ;  nor  longer  rashly  dare 

The  darts  of  Phcebus,  and  a  softer  air  ; 

Lest  ye  regret,  too  late,  your  native  coast, 

In  no  congenial  gulph  for  ever  lost ! 


APPENDIX. 

(No.  6.) 


/  make  no  afiology  for  the  introduction  of  the  following  Linesy 
though  I  have  never  learned  who  wrote  them.  Their  elegance 
•will  sufficiently  recoinmcnd  them  tofiersons  of  classical  taste  and 
erudition:  and  1  shall  be  hapfiy  if  the  English  version  that  they 
have  received  from  me,  be  found  not  to  dishonour  them.  Af- 
fection for  the  memory  of  the  worthy  man  whom  they  celebrate 
alone  firompted  me  to  this  endeavour, 

W.  CO  WPER. 


VERSES 

To  the  Memory  of  Dr.  Llotd. 
Spoken  at  the  Westminster  Election  next  after  his  Decease. 

VyUR  good  old  friend  is  gone,  gone  to  his  rest, 
Whose  social  converse  was  itself  a  feast ; 
O  ye  of  riper  years,  who  recoUect 
How  once  ye  lov'd,  and  eyed  him  with  respect, 
Both  in  the  firmness  of  his  better  day, 
While  yet  he  rul'd  you  with  a  father's  sway, 
And  when  impair'd  by  time,  and  glad  to  rest, 
Yet  still  with  looks  in  mild  complacence  drest) 
He  took  his  annual  seat,  and  mingled  here 
His  sprightly  vein  with  yours,  now  drop  a  tear ! 
In  morals  blameless,  as  in  manners  meek. 
He  knew  no  wish,  that  he  might  blush  to  speak. 
But,  happy  in  whatever  state  below, 
And  richer  than  the  rich  in  being  so. 
Obtain 'd  the  hearts  of  all,  and  such  a  meed 
At  length  from  one*  as  made  him  rich  indeed. 
Hence  then,  ye  titles,  hence,  not  wanted  hei"e  ! 
Go',  garnish  merit  in  a  higher  sphere, 


*  He  was  usher  and  under-master  of  Westminster  near  fifty  years,  and  retired  tVum  his  oc- 
cupaiion  when  he  was  near  seventy,  *itb  a  handsome  peosion  from  the  king. 


228  APPENDIX. 

The  brows  of  those,  whose  more  exalted  lot 
He  could  congratulate,  but  envy'd  not ! 
Light  lie  the  turf,  good  Senior,  on  thy  breast, 
And  tranquil,  as  thy  mind  was^  be  thy  rest ! 
Tho'  Hving  thou  had'st  more  desert  than  fame, 
And  not  a  stone  now  chronicles  thy  name ! 


Abiit  senex.    Periit  senex  amabilis, 

Quo  non  fuit  jucundior. 
Lugete  vos  setas  quibus  maturior 

Senem  colendum  prcestitit ; 
Seu  quando,  viribus  valentioribus 

Firmoque  fretus  pectore, 
Florentiori  vos  juventute  excolens 

Cura  fovebat  patria, 
Seu  quando,  fr actus,  jamque  donatus  rudej 

Vultu  sed  usque  blandulo, 
Miscere  gaudebat  suas  facetias 

His  annuls  leporibus  ! 
Vixit  probis,  puraque  simplex  indole, 

Blandisque  comis  moribus, 
Et  dives  xqua  mente,  charus  omnibus, 

Unius  auctus  munere. 
Ite,  tituli !  Meritis  beatioribus 

Aptate  laudes  debitas ! 
Nee  invidebat  ille,  si  quibus  favens 

Fortuna  plus  arriserat. 
Placide  senex,  levi  quiescas  cespite, 

Esti  superbum  nee  vivo  tibi 
Decus  sit  inditum,  nee  mortuo 

Lapis  notatus  nomine  ? 


APPENDIX. 

(No.  7.) 

TRANSLATIONS  from  the  FABLES  of  GAY 

Lefius  Mtdtis  Amicus, 

LuSUS  amicitia  est  uni  nisi  dedita,  cen  fit, 

Simplige  ni  nexus  fcedere,  lusus  amor. 
Incerto  genitore  puer,  non  saepe  paternx 

Tutamen  novit,  deliciasque  domus : 
Quique  sibi  fidos  fore  multos  sperat,  amicus 

Mirumest  huic  misei'o  si  ferat  uUas  opem. 

Comis  erat  mitisque,  et  nolle  et  velle  paratus 

Cum  quovis,  Gaii  more  modoque,  lepus  ; 
Ille  quot  in  sylvis,  et  quot  spatiantur  in  agris 

Quadrupedes  norat  conciliare  sibi. 
JEt  quisque  innocuo,  invitoque  lacessere  quenquam 

Labra  tenus  saltem  fidus  amicus  erat. 
Ortum  sub  lucis  dum  pressa  cubilia  linquit 

Rorantes  herbas,  pabula  sucta,  petens, 
Venatorum  audit  clangores  pone  sequentum 

Fulmineumque  sonum  territus  erro  fugit. 
Corda  pavor  pulsat,  sursum  sedet,  erigit  aures, 

Respicit  et  sentit  jam  prope  adesse  neCem. 
Utque  canes  fallat,  late  circumvagus,  illuc 

Undc  abiit  mira  callidate,  redit ; 
Viribus  et  fractis  tandem  se  projicit  uUro 

In  media  miserum  semianimcmque  via. 
Vix  ibi  stratus  equi  sonitum  pedis  audit,  et  oh  spe 

Quam  Ixta  adventum  cor  agitatur  equi ! 
Dorsum,  inquit,  mihi,  chare,  tuum  concede,  tuoque 

Auxilio  nares  fallerc,  vimque  canum, 
Me  mens,  ut  nosti,  pes  prodit — fidus  amicus 

Fert  quodcunquc  lubcns,  ncc  grave  sentit,  onus. 


S30  APPENDIX. 

Belle  miscelle  lepuscule !  equus  respondet,  amara 

Omnia  qucK  tibi  sunt,  sunt  et  amara  mihi, 
Varum  age — sume  animos — multi,  me  pone,  bonique 

Adveniunt  quorum  sis  cite  salvus  ope. 
Proximus  armenti  dominus  bos  solicitatus 

Auxilium  his  verbis  se  dare  posse  negat, 
Quando  quadrupedum  quot  vivunt,  nuUus  amicum 

Me  nescire  potest  usque  fuisse  tibi, 
Libertate  sequus,  quam  cedat  amicus  amico, 

Utar,  et  absque  metu  ne  tibi  displiceam  ; 
Hinc  me  mandat  amor.     Juxta  istum  messis  ascervum 

Me  mea,  prce  cunctis  cliara,  juvenca  manet ; 
Et  quis  non  ultro  quscumque  negotia  linquit, 

Pareat  ut  dominas,  cum  vocat  ipsa,  suse  ? 
Neu  me  crudelem  dicas — discedo — sed  liircus 

(Cujus  ope  eflFugias  integer)  hircus  adest. 
Febrem,  ait  hircus  habes :  heu  sicca  ut  lumina  languent  I 

Utque  caput  collo  deficiente  jacet ! 
Hirsutum  mihi  tergum ;  et  forsan  Ixserit  scgrum, 

Vellere  eris  melius  fultus,  ovisque  venit. 
Me  mihi  fecit  onus  natura,  ovis  inquit  anhelanS 

Sustineo  lanx  pondera  tanta  meac ; 
Me  nee  velocem  nee  fortem  jacto,  solentque 

Nos  etiam  ssevi  dilacerare  canes. 
Ultimus  accedit  vitulus,  vitulumque  precatur 

Ut  periturum  alias  ocyus  eripiat. 
Remne  ego  respondet  vitulus  suscepero  tantam, 

Non  depulsus  adhuc  ubere,  natus  heri  ? 
Te  quem  maturi  canibus  vaUdique  relinquunt 

Incolumem  potei'o  reddere  pai-vus  ego? 
Prscterea.  tollens  quem  illi  aversantur,  amicis 

Forte  parum  videar  consuluisse  meis. 
Ignoscas  oro.     Fidissima  dissociantur 

Corda,  et  tale  tibi  sat  liquet  esse  meum. 
Ecce  autem  ad  calces  canis  est  1  te  quanta  perempto 
Tristitia  est  nobis  ingruitura! — Vale  ! 


,4varns  et  Plutus. 

Irta  fenestra  Euri  flatu  stridcbat,  avarus 
Ex  somno  trepidus  surgit,  opumque  memcr. 

Lata  silcnter  humi  ponit  vestigia,  quemque 
Respicit  ad  scnitum  respiciensque  tremit ; 


APPENDIX.     .  231 

Angustissima  quxque  foramina  lampade  visit, 

Ad  v^cctes,  obices,  fertquc  refcrtque  manum. 
Dein  reserat  crebris  junctam  compagibus  arcani 

Exultansque  omnes  conspicit  iutus  opes. 
Sed  tandem  furiis  iiltricibus  actus  ob  artes 

Queis  sua  res  tenuis  creverat  in  cumulum, 
Contortis  manibus  nunc  stat,  nunc  pectora  pulsans 

Aurum  execratur,  perniciemque  vocat ; 
O  mihi,  ait,  misero  mens  quam  tranquilla  fuisset, 

Hoc  celasset  adhuc  si  modo  terra  malum  ! 
Nunc  autem  virtus  ipsa  est  venalis  ;  et  aurum 

Quid  contra  vitii  tormina  sxva  valet  ? 
O  inimicum  aurum  !  O  homini  infestissima  pcstis 

Cui  datur  illecebras  vincere  posse  tuas  ? 
Aurum  homines  suasit  contemnere  quicquid  honestum  est, 

Et  prxter  nomen  nil  retinere  boni. 
Aurum  cuncta  mali  per  terras  semina  sparsit ; 

Aurum  nocturnis  fiiribus  arma  dedit. 
Bella  docet  fortes,  timidosque  ad  pessima  ducit 

Fcedifragas  artes,  multiplicesque  dolos. 
Nee  vitii  quicquam  est  quod  non  inveneris  ortum 

Ex  malesuada  auri  sacrilegaque  fame. 
Dixit,  et  ingemuit ;  Plutusque  suum  sibi  numen 

Ante  oculos,  ira  fervidus  ipse  stetit. 
Arcum  clausit  avarus,  et  ora  horrentia  rugis 

Ostcndens,  tremulum  sic  deus  increpuit. 
Questil)us  his  raucis  mihi  cur,  stulte,  obstrepis  aures  ? 

Ista  tui  similes  tristia  quisque  canit. 
Commaculavi  egone  humanum  genus,  improbe  ?  Culpa, 

Dum  rapis  et  captas  omnia,  culpa  tua  est. 
Mene  execrandum  censes,  quia  tarn  pretiosa 

Criminibus  fiunt  perniciosa  tuis? 
Virtutis  specie,  pulchro  ccn  pallio  amictus 
Quisque  catus  nebulo  sordida  facta  tegit. 
Atque  suis  manibus  commissa  potentia,  durum 

Et  dirum  subito  vergit  ad  imperium. 
Hinc,  nimium  dum  latro  aurum  detrudit  in  arcam, 

Idem  aurum  latct  in  pectore  pestis  edax. 
Nutrit  avaritiam  et  fastum,  suspcndere  adunco 

Suadet  naso  inopes,  et  vitium  omne  docet. 
Auri  et  larga  probo  si  copia  contigit,  instar 

Horis  dilapsi  ex  scthei-e  cuncta  beat: 
Turn,  quasi  numen  inesset,  alit,  fovet,  educat  orbos 
Et  viduas  lacr\  mis  ora  rigare  vetgt. 


232  APPENDIX. 

Quo  sua  crimina  jure  auro  derivet  avarus 
Aurum  anims  pretium  qui  cupit  atque  capit? 

J^ege  par}  gladium  incuset  sicarius  atrox 
Cjeso  homine,  et  ferrum  judicet  esse  reuTn. 


Pafiilio  et  Limaoe. 

Qui  subito  ex  imis  rerum  in  fastigia  surgit, 
Nativas  sordes,  quicquid  agatur  olet. 


In  closing  this  series  of  Cowper's  translations,  I  must  not  fail 
to  express  my  concern,  that  I  am  unable  to  present  to  my  reader, 
according  to  my  intention,  a  specimen  of  the  Hem'iade,  as  trans- 
lated by  the  poetical  brothers. 

I  had  been  informed  that  I  should  ^nd  their  production  in  a 
Magazine  for  the  year  17'59 — I  have  indeed  found  in  a  Magazine 
of  that  period  a  version  of  the  poem,  but  not  by  the  Cowpers ;  yet 
their  version  probably  exists,  comprised  in  a  periodical  pubUcation : 
but  my  own  researches,  and  those  of  a  few  literary  friends,  kindly 
diligent  in  inquiry,  have  hitherto  been  unable  to  discover  it. 


APPENDIX. 

(No.  8.) 


During  Coivper's  visit  t6  Eartham^  he  kindly  pointed  out  to  me 
three  of  his  pajiers  in  the  last  volume  of  the  Connoisseur.  I 
inscribed  them  "with  his  name  at  the  time^  and  imagine  that  the 
readers  of  his  Life  may  be  gratified  in  seeing  them  inserted 
here.  I  find  other  numbers  of  that  ivork  ascribed  to  him;  but 
the  three  follonving  I  print  as  his,  on  his  own  explicit  authority, 

JVumber  119.    Thursday,  May  6,  1756 A''umber  134.    Thurs^ 

day,  August  19,  1756. — ■A^'umber  138.     Thursday,  September 
;6,  1756. 


THE  CONNOISSEUR. 
(NUMBER  119.) 

Pleniis  rimarum  sum,  luic  et  illuc  perfluo. 

Tek. 

Leaky  at  bottom ;  if  those  chinks  you  stop. 
In  vain — the  secret  will  run  o'er  at  top. 

1  HERE  is  no  mark  of  our  confidence  taken  more  kindly  by  a 
fi-iend,  than  the  entrusting  him  with  a  secret ;  nor  any  which  he 
is  so  likely  to  abuse.  Confidants  in  general  are  like  crazy  fire- 
locks, which  are  no  sooner  charged  and  cocked,  than  the  spring 
gives  way,  and  the  report  immediately  follows.  Happy  to  have 
been  thought  worthy  the  confidence  of  one  friend,  they  are  impa- 
tient to  manifest  their  importance  to  another  :  till,  between  them 
and  their  friend,  and  their  friend's  friend,^  the  whole  matter  is  pre- 
sently known  to  all  our  friends  round  the  wrekin.  The  secret 
catches,  as  it  were  by  contact,  and,  like  electrical  matter,  breaks 
forth  from  every  link  in  tlie  chain,  almost  at  the  same  instant. 
Thus  the  whole  exchange  may  be  thrown  into  a  l)uz  to-morrow  by 
what  was  whispered  in  the  middle  of  Marlborough  Downs  this 
morning,  and  in  a  week's  time  the  streets  may  ring  with  the  in- 
trigue of  a  woman  of  fasluou^  bellowed  out  from  tlie  foul  mouthy 

VOL.  II.  «h 


234  APPENDIX. 

of  the  hawkers,  though  at  present  it  is  known  to  no  creature  lir- 
ing  but  her  gallant  and  her  waiting-maid. 

As  the  talent  of  secrecy  is  of  so  great  importance  to  society, 
and  the  necessary  commerce  between  individuals  cannot  be  se- 
curely carried  on  without  it,  that  this  deplorable  weakness  should 
be  so  general  is  much  to  be  lamented.  You  may  as  well  pour 
water  into  a  funnel,  or  a  seive,  and  expect  it  to  be  retained  there, 
as  commit  any  of  your  concerns  to  so  slippery  a  companion.  It  is 
remarkable,  that  in  those  men  who  have  thus  lost  the  faculty  of 
rfetention,  the  desire  of  being  communicative  is  always  most  pre- 
valent where  it  is  least  justified.  If  they  are  intrusted  with  a 
matter  of  no  great  moment,  affairs  of  more  consequence  Avill,  per- 
haps, in  a  few  hours,  shuAlc  it  entirely  out  of  their  thoughts :  but  if 
any  thing  be  delivered  to  them  with  an  earnestness,  a  low  voice, 
and  the  gesture  of  a  man  in  terror  for  the  consequence  of  its  being 
known ;  if  the  door  is  bolted,  and  every  precaution  taken  to  pre- 
vfent  surprise,  however  they  may  promise  secrecy,  and  however 
they  may  intend  it,  the  weight  upon  their  minds  will  be  so  extre- 
mely oppressive,  that  it  will  certainly  put  their  tongues  in  motion. 

This  breach  of  trust,  so  universal  amongst  us,  is  perhaps  in 
great  m.easure  owing  to  our  education.  The  firSt  lesson  our  little 
masters  and  misses  are  taught  is  to  become  blabs  and  tell-tales : 
they  are  bribed  to  divulge  the  petty  intrigues  of  the  family  below 
stairs  to  papa  and  mama  in  the  parlour ;  and  a  doll  or  hobby-horse 
is  generally  the  encouragement  of  a  propensity  which  could 
scarcely  be  atoned  for  by  a  whipping.  As  soon  as  children  can 
lisp  out  the  little  intelligence  they  have  picked  up  in  the  hall,  or  the 
kitchen,  they  are  admired  for  their  vAt :  if  the  butler  has  been 
cavight  kissing  the  housekeeper  in  his  pantry,  or  the  footman  de- 
tected in  romping  with  the  chambermaid,  away  flies  little  Tommy 
or  Betsy  with  the  news ;  the  parents  are  lost  in  admiration  of  the 
pretty  rogue's  understanding,  and  reward  such  uncommon  inge- 
nuity with  a  kiss  or  a  sugar-plumb. 

Nor  does  an  inclination  to  secrecy  meet  with  less  encouragement 
at  school.  The  governants  at  the  boarding-school  teach  miss  to  be 
a  good  girl,  and  tell  them  every  thing  she  knows :  thus,  if  any 
yDung  lady  is  unfortunately  discovered  eating  a  green  apple  in  a 
corner  ;  if  she  is  heard  to  pronounce  a  naughty  word,  or  is  caught 
picking  the  letters  out  of  another  miss's  sampler,  away  runs  the 
chit  who  is  so  happy  as  to  get  the  start  of  the  rest,  screams  out 
her  information  as  she  goes;  and  the  prudent  matron  chucks  her 
under  the  chin,  and  tells  her  that  she  is  a  good  girl,  and  every 
body  will  love  her. 

The  management  of  our  young  gentlemen  is  equally  absurd; 


APPENDIX.  235 

\n  most  of  our  schools,  if  a  lad  is  discovered  in  a  scrape,  the  im- 
peachment of  an  accomplice,  as  at  the  Old-Bailey,  is  made  the 
condition  of  a  pardon,  I  remember  a  boy,  engaged  in  robbing  an 
orcliard,  who  was  unfortunately  taken  prisoner  in  an  apple-tree, 
and  conducted,  under  the  strong  guard  of  tlie  farmer  and  his  dairy- 
maid, to  the  master's  house.  Upon  his  absolute  refusal  to  discover 
his  associates,  tlie  pedagogue  undertook  to  lash  him  out  of  his  fide- 
lity ;  but  finding  it  impossible  to  scourge  the  secret  out  of  him,  he 
at  last  gave  him  up  for  an  obstinate  villain,  and  sent  him  to  his 
father,  who  told  him  he  was  ruined,  and  was  going  to  disinherit 
him  for  not  betraying  his  school-fellows. 

I  must  own  I  am  not  fond  of  thus  drul^bing  our  youths  into  trea- 
chery; and  am  much  pleased  with  the  request  of  Ulysses,  when 
he  went  to  Troy,  who  begged  of  those  who  were  to  have  the  care 
of  young  Telemachus,  that  they  would,  above  all  things,  teach  him 
to  be  just,  sincere,  faitiiful,  and  to  keep  a  secret. 

Every  man's  experience  must  have  furnished  him  with  instan- 
ces of  confidants  who  are  not  to  be  relied  on,  and  friends  who  arc 
not  to  be  trusted ;  but  few,  perhaps,  have  thought  it  a  character  so 
well  worth  their  attention,  as  to  have  marked  out  the  different  de- 
grees into  which  it  may  be  divided,  and  the  different  methods  by 
which  secrets  are  commiinicated. 

Ned  Trusty  is  a  tell-tale  of  a  very  singular  kind.  Having  some 
sense  of  his  duty,  he  hesitates  a  little  at  the  breach  of  it.  If  he 
engages  never  to  utter  a  syllable,  he  most  punctually  performs  his 
promise;  but  then  he  has  the  knack  of  insinuating,  by  a  nod  and  a 
shrug  well-timed,  or  a  seasonable  leer,  as  much  as  others  can  con- 
vey in  express  terms.  It  is  difficult,  in  short,  to  determine  whe- 
ther he  is  more  to  be  admired  for  his  resolution  in  not  mentioning, 
or  his  ingenuity  in  disclosing  a  secret.  He  is  also  excellent  at  a 
doubtful  phrase,  as  Hamlet  calls  it,  or  ambiguous  giving  out ;  and 
his  conversation  consists  chiefly  of  such  broken  inuendoes  as — 
"  well  I  know — or  I  could — and  if  I  would — or,  if  I  list  to  speak — . 
or  there  be,  and  if  there  might,"  Sec. 

Here  he  generally  stops,  and  leaves  it  to  his  hearers  to  dvavr 
proper  inferences  from  these  piece-meal  pi-emises.  With  due  en- 
couragement, however,  he  maybe  prevailed  on  to  s'lip  the  padlock 
from  his  lips,  and  immediately  overwhelms  you  Avith  a  torrent  of 
secret  history,  whiclv  rushes  forth  with  more  violence  for  having 
been  so  long  confined. 

Poor  Mcanwell,  though  he  never  fails  to  transgress,  is  rather  to 
be  pitied  than  condemned.  To  ti'ust  him  with  a  secret  is  to  spoil 
Ids  appetite,  to  break  his  rest,  and  to  deprive  him,  for  a  time,  of 
^yciy  earthly  enjoyment.     Like  a  man  who  travels  with  his  whol?. 


236  APPENDIX. 

fortune  in  his  pocket,  he  is  terrified  if  you  approach  him,  and 
immediately  suspects  that  you  come  with  a  felonious  intent  to  rob 
him  of  his  chai'ge.  If  he  ventures  abroad,  it  is  to  walk  in  some 
unfrequented  place,  where  he  is  least  in  danger  of  an  attack.  At 
home  he  shuts  himself  up  from  his  family,  paces  to  and  fro  his 
chamber,  and  has  no  relief  biit  from  muttering  over  to  himself  what 
he  longs  to  publish  to  the  world,  and  would  gladly  submit  to  the  of- 
fice of  town-cryer,  for  the  liberty  of  proclaiming  it  in  the  market- 
place. At  length,  however,  weary  of  his  bui'den,  and  resolved  to 
bear  it  no  longer,  he  consigns  it  to  the  custody  of  the  first  friend  he 
meets,  and  returns  to  his  wife  with  a  cheerful  aspect,  and  wonder- 
ftilly  altered  for  the  better. 

Careless  is,  perhaps,  equally  undesigning,  though  not  equally  ex- 
cusable. Intrust  him  with  an  affair  of  the  utmost  importance,  on 
the  concealment  of  which  your  fortune  and  happiness  depend :  he 
hears  you  with  a  kind  of  half  attention,  whistles  a  favourite  air, 
and  accompanies  it  with  the  drumming  of  his  fingers  upon  the 
table.  As  soon  as  your  narration  is  ended,  or  perhaps  in  the  middle 
of  it,  he  asks  your  opinion  of  his  sword-knot — damns  his  taylor  for 
having  dressed  him  in  a  snufF-coloured  coat  instead  of  a  pompa- 
dour, and  leaves  you  in  haste  to  attend  an  auction ;  where,  as  if 
he  meant  to  dispose  of  his  intelligence  to  the  best  bidder,  he  di- 
vulges it  with  a  voice  as  loud  as  an  auctioneer's ;  and  when  you  tax 
him  with  having  played  you  false,  he  is  heartily  sorry  for  it,  but  ne- 
ver knew  that  it  was  to  be  a  secret. 

To  these  I  might  add  the  character  of  the  open  and  unreserved, 
who  thinks  it  a  breach  of  friendship  to  conceal  any  thing  from  his 
intimates ;  and  the  impertinent,  who  having,  by  dint  of  observa- 
tion, made  himself  master  of  your  secret,  imagines  he  may  law- 
fiilly  publish  the  knowledge  it  cost  him  so  much  labour  to  obtain, 
and  considers  that  privilege  as  the  reward  due  to  his  industry.  But 
I  shall  leave  these,  with  many  other  characters,  which  my  reader's 
own  experience  may  suggest  to  him,  and  conclude  with  prescrib- 
ing, as  a  short  remedy  for  this  evil — that  no  man  may  betray  the 
council  of  his  friend,  let  every  man  keep  his  own. 


APPENDIX.  23!* 

THE  CONNOISSEUR. 

(NUMBER  134.) 

Delicta  majorum  immeritiis  lues, 
Romane,  donee  templa  refeeeris 
^desque  labentia  Deorum,  et 
Fxda  nigro  simulaera  funio. 

HOR. 

The  tottering  tow'r  and  mould'ring  walls  repair, 
And  fill  with  decency  the  house  of  prayer: 
Qiiick  to  the  needy  curate  bring  relief, 
And  deck  the  parish-church  without  a  brief. 

Mr.  village  to  Mr.  TOWN. 
t)EAR  Cousin, 

X  HE  country,  at  present,  no  less  than  the  metropolis,  abounding- 
with  poUticians  of  every  kind,  I  begin  to  despair  of  picking  up  any 
intelligence  that  might  possibly  be  entertaining  to  your  readers. 
However,  I  have  lately  visited  some  of  the  most  distant  parts  of 
the  kingdom,  with  a  clergyman  of  my  acquaintance.  I  shall  not 
trouble  you  with  an  account  of  the  impi-ovements  that  have  been 
made  in  the  seats  we  saw,  according  to  the  modern  taste,  but  pro- 
ceed to  give  you  some  reflections  which  occurred  to  us  in  observing 
several  country  churches,  and  the  behaviour  of  their  congrega- 
tions. 

The  ruinous  condition  of  some  of  these  edifices  gave  me  great 
offence ;  and  I  could  not  help  wishing  that  the  honest  vicar,  instead 
of  indulging  his  genius  for  improvements,  by  enclosing  his  goose- 
berry bushes  within  a  Chinese  rail,  and  converting  half  an  acre  of 
his  glebe-land  into  a  bowling-green,  would  have  applied  part  of  his 
income  to  the  more  laudable  purpose  of  sheltering  his  parishioners 
fi'om  the  weather  during  their  attendance  on  divine  service.  It  is 
no  vmcommon  thing  to  see  the  parsonage-house  well  thatched,  and 
in  exceeding  good  repair,  while  the  church  perhaps  has  scarce  any 
other  roof  than  the  ivy  that  grows  over  it.  The  noise  of  owls,  bats, 
and  magjjies  makes  the  principal  part  of  the  cluirch  music  in 
many  of  these  ancient  edifices  ;  and  the  walls,  like  a  large  map, 
seem  to  be  portioned  out  into  capes,  seas,  and  promontories,  by  the 
Various  colours  by  which  the  damps  have  stained  them.  Some- 
times the  foundation  being  too  weak  to  support  the  steeple  any 
longer,  it  has  been  found  expedient  to  pull  down  that  part  of  tlie 


S3S  APPENDIJf. 

building,  and  to  hang  the  bells  under  a  wooden  shed  on  the  ground 
beside  it.  This  is  the  case  in  a  parish  in  Norfolk,  through  which  I 
lately  passed,  and  where  the  clerk  and  the  sexton,  like  the  two 
figures  of  St.  Dunstan's,  sei-ve  the  bells  in  capacity  of  clappers,  by 
striking  them  alternately  with  a  hammer. 

In  other  churches  I  have  observed  that  nothing  unseemly  oi'. 
ruinous  is  to  be  fomid,  except  in  the  clergyman,  and  the  append- 
ages of  his  person.  The  'squire  of  the  pa,rish,  or  his  ancestors, 
perhaps,  to  testify  their  devotion,  and  leave  a  lasting  monument 
of  their  magnifience,have  adorned  the  altar-piece  with  the  richest 
crimson  velvet,  embroidered  with  vine-leaves  and  ears  of  wheat ; 
and  have  dressed  up  the  pulpit  with  the  same  splendour  and  ex- 
pense ;  while  the  gentleman  who  fills  it  is  exalted,  in  the  midst  of 
all  this  finery,  with  a  surplice  as  dirty  as  a  farmer's  frock,  and  a 
periwig  that  seems  to  have  transferred  its  faculty  of  curling  to  the 
band,  which  appears  in  full  buckle  beneath  it. 

But  if  I  was  concerned  to  see  several  distressed  pastors,  as  well 
as  many  of  our  country  churches,  in  a  tottering  condition,  I  was 
more  offended  with  the  indecency  of  worship  in  others.  I  could 
wish  that  the  clergy  would  inform  tlieir  congregations,  that  there 
is  no  occasion  to  scream  themselves  hoarse  in  making  the  respon- 
ses ;  that  the  town-cryer  is  not  the  only  person  qualified  to  pray  * 
with  due  devotion ;  and  that  he  who  bawls  the  loudest  may  never- 
theless be  the  wickedest  fellow  in  the  parish.  The  old  women,  too, 
in  the  aisle  might  be  told,  that  their  time  would  be  better  employed 
in  attending  to  tlie  sermon,  tlian  in  fumbling  over  their  tattered 
testaments  till  they  have  found  the  text ;  by  which  time  the  dis- 
course is  near  drawiiig  to  a  conclusion:  while  a  word  or  two  of 
instruction  might  not  be  thrown  away  upon  the  younger  part  of 
the  congregation,  to  teach  them  that  making  posies  in  summer 
time,  and  cracking  nuts  in  autumn,  is  no  part  of  the  religious 
ceremony. 

The  good  old  practice  of  psalm-singing  is,  indeed,  wonderfully, 
.improved  in  many  country  churches  since  the  days  of  Sternhold 
and  Hopkins ;  and  thei'e  is  scarce  a  parish  clerk  who  has  so  little 
taste  as  not  to  pick  his  staves  out  of  the  new  version.  This  has 
occasioned  gi'eat  complaints  in  some  places,  where  the  clerk  has 
been  forced  to  bawl  by  himself,  because  the  rest  of  the  congrega- 
tion cannot  find  the  psalm  at  the  end  of  their  prayer-books ;  while 
others  are  highly  disgusted  at  the  innovation,  and  stick  as  obsti- 
natelv  to  the  old  version  as  to  the  old  style. 

The  tunes  themselves  have  also  been  new  set  to  jiggish  mea- 
^n-es,  and  the  sober  drawl  which  used  to  accompany  the  two  first 
staves  of  the  hundreth  Psalm,  with  the  Gloria  Patri,  is  now  split 


APPENDIX.  23f 

into  as  many  quavers  as  an  Italian  air.  For  this  purpose  there  is 
in  every  country  an  itinerant  band  of  vocal  musicians,  Avho  make 
it  their  business  to  go  round  to  all  the  churches  in  their  turns,  and 
after  a  prelude  with  the  pitch-pipe,  astonish  the  audience  with 
hymns  set  to  the  new  Winchester  measure,  and  anthems  of  tla^ir 
own  composing. 

As  these  nevN^-fashioned  psalmodists  are  necessarily  made  up  of 
young  men  and  maids,  we  may  naturally  suppose  that  there  is  a 
perfect  concord  and  symphony  between  them  :  and,  indeed,  I  have 
known  it  hajjpen,  that  these  sweet  singers  have  more  than  once 
been  brought  into  disgrace  by  too  close  an  unison  between  the 
tliorough-bass  and  the  treble. 

It  is  a  difficult  matter  to  decide  which  is  looked  upon  as  the 
greatest  man  in  a  country  church,  the  parson  or  his  clerk.  The 
latter  is  most  certainly  held  in  the  higher  veneration,  where  the 
former  happens  to  be  only  a  poor  curate,  who  rides  post  every 
Sabbatli  from  village  to  village,  and  mounts  and  dismounts  at  the 
church-door.  The  clerk's  office  is  not  only  to  tag  the  prayers  with 
an  amen,  or  usher  in  the  sermon  with  a  stave ;  but  he  is  also  the 
universal  father  to  give  away  the  brides,  and  the  standing  god- 
father to  all  the  new-born  bantlings.  But,  in  many  places,  there  is 
still  a  greater  man  belonging  to  the  church  than  either  the  parson 
or  the  clerk  himself.  The  person  I  mean  is  the  'squire,  who,  like 
the  king,  may  be  styled  head  of  the  church  in  his  own  parish.  If 
the  benefice  be  in  his  own  gift,  the  vicar  is  his  creature,  and,  of 
consequence,  entirely  at  his  devotion  :  or  if  the  care  of  the  church 
l^e  left  to  a  curate,  the  Sunday-fees,  roast-beef  and  plumb-pudding, 
and  the  liberty  to  shoot  in  the  manor,  will  bring  him  as  much  under 
the  'squire's  command  as  his  dogs  and  hoi"ses. 

For  this  reason,  the  bell  is  often  kept  tolling,  and  the  people 
waiting  in  the  church-yard,  an  hour  longer  than  the  usual  time  ; 
nor  must  the  service  begin  till  the  'squire  has  strutted  up  the  aisle 
and  seated  himself  in  the  great  pew  in  the  chancel.  The  length 
of  the  sermon  is  also  measured  by  the  will  of  the  'squire,  as  for- 
merly by  the  hour  glass ;  and  I  know  one  parish  where  the  preacher 
has  always  the  complaisance  to  conclude  his  discourse,  however 
abruptly,  the  minute  that  the  'squire  gives  the  signal  by  rising  up 
aiutr  his  nap. 

In  a  village  church,  the  'squire's  lady,  or  the  vicar's  wife,  are 
perhaps  the  only  females  that  are  stared  at  for  their  finery ;  but 
in  the  large  cities  and  torwns,  where  the  newest  fashions  are 
brought  down  weekly  by  the  stage-coach,  or  waggon,  all  the  wives 
and  daughters  of  the  most  topping  tradesmen  vie  with  each  other, 
e\-cry  Sunday,  in  Uie  elegance  of  their  apparel.    I  could  even  trace 


340  APPENDIX. 

their  gradations  in  their  dress,  according  to  the  opulence,  the 
extent,  and  the  distance  of  the  place  from  London.  I  was  at 
church  in  a  populous  city  in  the  north,  where  the  mace-bearer 
cleared  the  way  for  Mrs.  Mayoress,  who  came  sidling  after  him 
in  an  enormous  fan-hoop,  of  a  pattern  which  had  never  been  seen 
before  in  those  parts.  At  another  church,  in  a  corporation  town, 
I  saw  several  negligees,  with  furbellowed  aprons,  which  had 
long  disputed  the  prize  of  superiority :  but  these  were  most  woe- 
fully eclipsed  by  a  burgess's  daughter,  just  come  ft-om  London, 
who  appeared  in  a  trollojijie  or  slammerkin,  with  treble  ruffles 
to  the  cuffs,  pinked  and  gymped,  and  the  sides  of  the  petticoat 
drawn  up  in  festoons.  In  some  lesser  borough  towns,  the  contest 
I  found  lay  between  three  or  four  black  and  green  bibs  and  aprons. 
At  one  a  grocer's  wife  attracted  our  eyes  by  a  new  fashion  cap, 
called  a  joan,  and  at  another,  they  were  wholly  taken  up  by  a 
mercer's  daughter  in  a  nun's  hood. 

I  need  not  say  any  thing  of  the  behaviour  of  the  congregations  irj 
these  more  polite  places  of  religious  resort ;  as  the  same  genteel 
ceremonies  are  practised  there  as  at  the  most  fashionable  churches, 
in  town.  The  ladies,  immediately  on  their  entrance,  breathe  a 
pious  ejacvilation  through  their  fan-sticks,  and  the  beaux  very 
gravely  address  themselves  to  the  haberdashers'  bills,  glewed  upon 
the  lining  of  their  hats.  This  pious  duty  is  no  sooner  performed  than 
the  exercise  of  bowing  and  curtesying  succeeds ;  the  locking  and 
unlocking  of  the  pews  drowns  the  reader's  voice  at  the  beginning 
of  the  service ;  and  the  rustling  of  silks,  added  to  the  whispering 
and  tittering  of  so  much  good  company,  renders  him  totally  unin- 
telligible to  the  very  end  of  it. 

I  am,  dear  cousin,  yours,  &c. 


THE  CONNOISSEUR. 

(NUMBER  138.) 
Servata  semper  lege  et  ratione  loqucndi. 


Juv. 


Your  talk  to  decency  and  reason  suit. 
Not  prate  like  fools,  or  gabble  like  a  brute. 


In  the  comedy  of  the  Frenchman  in  London,  which  we  are  told 
was  acted  at  Paris  with  uni\  ersal  applause  for  several  nights  toge- 
gether,  there  is  a  character  of  a  rough  Englishman,  who  is  repre- 
sented as  quite  uiiskilled  in  the  graaes  of  conversation,  and  his  dia- 


APPENDIX.  241 

I<)gue  consists  almost  entirely  of  a  repetition  of  the  common  saluta- 
tion of,  How  do  you  do  ?  how  do  you  do  ?  Our  nation  has,  indeed, 
been  generally  supposed  to  be  of  a  sullen  and  uncommunicative  dis- 
position ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  loquacious  French  have 
been  allowed  to  possess  the  art  of  conversing  beyond  all  other  peo- 
ple. The  Englishnum  requires  to  be  wound  up  frequently,  and 
stops  very  soon ;  but  the  Frenchman  runs  on  in  a  continued  ala- 
rum. Yet  it  nuist  be  acknowledged,  that  as  the  English  consist  of 
very  different  humours,  their  manner  of  discourse  admits  of  great 
variety:  but  the  whole  French  nation  converse  alike;  and  there  is 
no  difference  in  their  address  between  a  marquis  and  a  valet  de 
chambre.  We  may  frequently  see  a  couple  of  French  barbers  ac- 
costing each  other  in  the  street,  and  paying  their  compliments 
with  the  same  volubility  of  speech,  the  same  grimace,  and  action, 
as  two  courtiers  in  the  'I'huillcries. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  lay  down  any  particular  rules  for  conver- 
sation, but  rather  point  out  such  faults  in  discourse  and  behaviour 
as  render  the  company  of  half  mankind  rather  tedious  than  amus- 
ing. It  is  in  vain,  indeed,  to  look  for  conversation  where  we  might 
expect  to  find  it  in  the  greatest  perfection,  among  persons  of 
fashion;  thei'e  it  is  almost  annihilated  by  universal  caixl-phiying ; 
iTisomuch,  that  I  have  heard  it  given  us  a  I'eason,  why  it  is  impos- 
sible for  our  present  writers  to  succeed  in  the  dialogue  of  genteel 
comedy,  that  our  people  of  quality  scarce  ever  meet  but  to  game. 
All  their  discourse  turns  upon  the  odd  trick,  and  the  four  honours, 
and  it  is  ne  less  a  maxim  with  the  votaries  of  whist  than  with 
those  of  Bacchus,  that  talking  spoils  company. 

Every  one  endeavours  to  make  himself  as  agreeable  to  society  as 
he  can  ;  but  it  often  happens  that  those  who  most  aim  at  shining 
in  conversation  overshoot  their  mark.  Though  a  man  succeeds, 
he  should  not  (as  is  frequently  the  case)  engross  the  whole  talk  to 
himself,  for  that  desti-oys  the  veiy  essence  of  conversation,  which  is 
talking  together.  We  should  try^  to  keep  up  conversation  like  a 
ball  bandied  to  and  fro  from  one  to  another,  rather  than  seize  it 
ourselves,  and  drive  it  before  us  like  a  foot-ball.  We  should  like- 
wise be  cautious  to  adapt  the  matter  of  our  disccurse  to  our  com- 
pany, and  not  to  talk  Greek  before  ladies,  or  of  the  last  new  fui*- 
bclow  to  a  meeting  of  country  justices. 

But  nothing  throws  a  more  ridiculous  air  over  our  Avholc  conver- 
sation than  certain  peculiarities,  easily  acquired,  but  very  diffi- 
cultly conquered  and  discarded.  In  order  to  display  these  ab^^ur- 
dities  in  a  truer  light,  it  is  my  present  purpose  to  enumerate  such 
of  them  as  are  most  commonly  to  be  met  with  ;  and  first,  to  take 
notice  of  those  buffoons  in  society,  the  attitudiuariaus  and  face-ma- 

voi,.  II.  I  i 


242  APPENDIX. 

kers.  These  accompany  eveiy  word  with  a  peculiar  grimace  or 
gesture :  they  assent  with  a  shrug,  and  contradict  with  a  twisting 
of  the  neck ;  are  angry  with  a  wry  mouth,  and  pleased  in  a  caper 
or  a  minuet  step.  They  may  be  considered  as  speaking  hai'le- 
quins ;  and  their  rules  of  eloquence  are  taken  from  the  posture- 
master.  These  should  be  condemned  to  converse  only  in  dumb 
show  with  tlieir  own  person  in  the  looking-glass ;  as  well  as  the 
smirkers  and  srailers,  who  so  prettily  set  off  their  faces,  together 
with  their  words  by  a  je-ne-scai-quoi  between  a  grin  and  a  dimple. 
With  these  we  may  likewise  rank  the  aiFected  tribe  of  mimics, 
who  are  constantly  taking  off  the  peculiar  tone  of  voice  or  gesture 
of  their  acquaintance  ;  though  they  are  such  wretched  imitators, 
that  (like  bad  painters)  they  are  frequently  forced  to  write  tlie 
name  under  the  picture  before  we  can  discover  any  likeness. 

Next  to  these,  whose  elocution  is  absorbed  in  action,  and  who 
converse  chiefly  with  their  arms  and  legs,  we  may  consider  tlie 
profest  speakers.  And  first,  the  emphatical ;  who  squeeze,  and 
press,  and  ram  down  every  syllable  with  excessive  vehemence  and 
energy.  These  orators  are  remarkable  for  their  distinct  elocution 
and  force  of  expression  ;  they  dwell  on  the  important  particles  of 
and  the^  and  the  significant  conjunctive  and ;  which  they  seem  to 
iiawk  up  with  much  diificulty  out  of  their  own  throats,  and  to  cram 
them  witli  no  less  pain  into  the  ears  of  their  auditors. 

These  should  be  suffered  only  to  syringe  (as  it  were)  th6  ears  of 
a  deaf  man,  through  an  hearing  trumpet :  though,  I  must  confess, 
that  I  am  equally  offended  with  whisperers  or  low  speakers,  who 
seem  to  fancy  alt  their  acquaintance  deaf,  and  come  up  so  close  to 
you,  that  they  may  be  said  to  measure  noses  with  you,  and  fi-e- 
quently  overcome  you  with  the  exhalations  of  a  powerful  breath. 
I  would  have  these  oracular  gentry  obliged  to  talk  at  a  distance 
through  a  speaking  trumpet,  or  apply  their  lips  to  the  wails  of  a 
whispering  gallery.  The  wits,  \vho  will  not  condescend  to  utter 
any  thing  but  a  bou  mot,  and  the  whistlers,  or  tiuie-hummers,  who 
ne\'^r  articulate  at  all,  may  be  joined  very  agreeably  together  in 
concert ;  and  to  these  tinkling  cymbals  I  would  also  add  the  sound- 
ing brass,  the  bawler,  avIio  inquires  after  your  health  with  the 
bellowing  of  a  town-cry er. 

The  tatlcrs,  whose  pliable  pipes  are  admirably  adapted  to  the 
"  soft  parts  of  conversation,"  and  sweetly  "  pratling  out  of  fashion,"' 
make  very  pretty  music  from  a  beautiful  face  and  a  female  tongue : 
but  from  a  rough  manly  voice  and  coarse  features,  mere  non- 
sense is  as  harsh  and  dissonant  as  a  jig  from  an  hurd}-gurdy. 
The  swearers  I  have  spoken  of  in  a  former  paper  ;  but  the  half- 
swearers,  who  split,  and  mince,  and  fritter  their  oaths  into  gad'S'. 


> 


APPENDIX.  243 

but,  ad's-Jish,  and  dcmmc ;  tlic  (iothic  humbuggcrs,  and  those 
who  "  nick-name  God's  creatures,"  and  call  a  man  a  cabbage,  a 
crab,  a  queer  cub,  an  odd  fish,  and  an  unaccountable  7)iuskin^ 
should  never  come  into  company  without  an  interpreter.  But  I  will 
not  tire  my  reader's  patience,  by  pointing  out  all  the  pests  of  con- 
versation ;  nor  dwell  particularly  on  the  sensibles,  who  pi-onounce 
dogmaticalh'  on  the  most  trivial  points,  and  speak  in  sentences ; 
the  Avonderers,  who  are  always  wondering  what  o'clock  it  is,  or 
wondering  whether  it  will  rain  or  no,  or  wondering  when  the  moon 
changes ;  the  phraseologists,  who  explain  a  thing  by  all  that,  or  en- 
ter into  particulars  with  thu,  that,  and  t'other;  and,  lastly,  the 
silent  men,  who  seem  afraid  of  opening  their  mouths,  lest  they 
should  catch  cold,  and  literally  observe  the  precept  of  the  gospel, 
by  letting  their  conversation  be  only  yea  yea,  and  nay  nay. 

The  rational  intercourse  kept  up  by  conversation,  is  one  of  our 
principal  distinctions  from  brutes.  We  should  therefore  endeavour 
to  turn  this  peculiar  talent  to  our  advantage,  and  consider  the  or- 
gans of  speech  as  the  instruments  of  understanding.  We  should  be 
very  careful  not  to  use  them  as  the  weapons  of  vice,  or  tools  of 
folly,  and  do  cur  utmost  to  unlearn  any  trivial  or  ridiculous  habits, 
which  tend  to  lessen  the  value  of  such  an  inestimable  pi'eroga- 
tive.  It  is,  indeed,  imagined  by  some  philosopliers,  that  even 
birds  and  beasts  (though  without  the  power  of  articulation)  per- 
fectly understand  one  another  by  the  sounds  they  utter  ;  and  that 
dogs  and  cats,  &c.  have  each  a  particular  language  to  themselves, 
like  different  nations.  Thus  it  may  be  supposed,  that  the  nightin- 
gales of  Italy  have  as  fine  an  ear  for  their  own  native  wood-notes 
as  any  signer  or  signora  for  an  Italian  air ;  that  the  boars  of  West- 
phaha  gruntle  as  expressively  through  the  nose  as  the  inhabitants 
in  High-German  ;  and  that  the  frogs  in  the  dykes  of  Holland  croak 
as  intelligibly  as  the  natives  jabber  their  Low  Dutch.  However 
this  may  be,  we  may  consider  those  whose  tongues  hardly  seem  to 
be  under  the  influence  of  reason,  and  do  not  keep  up  the  proper 
conversation  of  human  creatures,  as  imitating  the  language  of  dif- 
ferent animals.  Thus,  for  instance,  the  affinity  between  chatterers 
and  monkeys,  and  praters  and  parrots,  is  too  ob\-ious  not  to  occur 
at  once:  Grunters  and  growlers  may  be  justly  compared  to  hogs; 
snarlers  are  curs  ;  and  the  s/iif/ire  /lasshnate  are  a  sort  of  wild- 
cats that  will  not  bear  streaking,  but  will  pur  when  they  are 
pleased.  Complainers  are  screech-owls;  and  story-tellers,  always 
repeating  the  same  dull  note,  are  cuckows.  Poets,  that  prick 
up  their  ears  at  their  own  hideous  braying,  are  no  better  than 
asses ;  critics  in  general  are  venomous  serpents,  that  delight  in 
hissing ;  and  some  of  them  who  hiuc  got  l)y  heart  a  few  technical 


244  APPENDIX. 

terms,  -without  knowing  their  meaning,  are  no  other  than  magpies^ 
I  myself,  who  have  crowed  to  the  whole  town  for  near  three  years 
past,  may,  perhaps,  put  my  readers  in  mind  of  a  dunghill  cock; 
but  as  I  must  acquaint  them,  that  they  will  hear  the  last  of  me 
on  this  day  fortnight,  I  hope  they  will  then  consider  me  as  a  swan^ 
ffho  is  supposed  to  sing  sweetly  in  his  dying  moments. 


^ 


APPENDIX. 


24J 


MOTTO  ON  A  CLOCK, 

With  a  Translation  by  the  Editor, 

Quot  lenta  accedit,  quani  velox  i)rxtevit  hora ! 
Ut  capias,  patiens  esto,  sed  esto  vigil  I 

Sloiv  co7nes  the  hour ;  its  fiassiiig  s/ieed  how  great  i 
JVaiting  to  seize  it — vigilantly  wait! 


Ptace  to  the  A  t  1 1  ho  e  tigettous  thought 
Devised  the  Weather-house,  that  useful  toy ; 

miTrinmiil      Fearless  of  humid  air  and  gathering  rains 

,((llj|jl;j!j!!'u'[)j)  ( r      Forth  steps  the  Man,  an  emblem  of  myself, 
i'iili     I'i  liiili'.liiiij        ^lore  delicate  his  timorous  mate  retires. 


iiiii 

JhshJBJ.U/icZ': 


Lo-.ipi.  's  tame  Rate, 


CONCLUSION. 


Astanti  sat  erit  si  dicam  sim  tibi  curx : 

******* 

Forsitan  et  nostros  ducat  de  marmore  vultus 
Nectens  aut  paphia  myrti,  aut  parnasside  lauri 
Fronde  comas,  at  ego  secura  pace  quiescam. 

MILTON!  MANSUS, 

1  shall  but  need  to  say.,  be  yet  my  friend: 
He  too.,  fierhafis^  shall  bid  the  marble  breathe 
To  honour  me;  and  nvith  the  graceful  wreath, 
Or  of  Par7iassus,  or  the  Paphian  Isle, 
Shall  bind  my  brows — but  I  shall  rest  the  while. 

COWPER'S  TRANSLATION, 


N 


THE 

CONCLUSION. 


T  HOUGH  it  seems  unnecessary  to  enumerate  the  many  public 
compliments  that  have  been  paid,  by  a  variety  of  writers,  to  the 
poetical  excellence  of  Cowper,  I  must  not  fail  to  notice  a  private 
tribute  to  his  merit,  which  the  kindness  of  a  distant  friend  trans- 
mitted to  me  while  these  volumes  were  in  the  press. 

In  the  form  of  a  letter,  to  an  accomplished  author  of  Ireland,  it 
comprizes  a  series  of  extensive  observations  on  the  poetry  of  my 
departed  friend ;  observations  so  full  of  taste  and  feeling,  that  I 
hope  the  judicious  writer  will,  in  a  season  of  leisure,  revise,  extend, 
and  convert  them  into  a  separate  monument  to  the  memory  of  tlie 
poet,  whom  he  is  worthy  to  praise. 

Being  favoured  with  the  liberty  of  using,  in  this  publication,  the 
manuscript  I  have  mentioned,  I  shall  select  from  it  a  passage  re- 
lating both  to  Milton  and  to  Cowper,  as  an  introduction  to  the 
pi'oposal  in  honour  of  the  two  illustrious  and  congenial  poets,  with 
which  I  have  already  promised  to  close  this  address  to  the  public. 

After  many  forcible  remarks  on  the  moral  spirit  of  poetry,  and 
a  quotation  from  Lowth  on  its  end  and  efficacy,  the  animated  cri- 
tic proceeds  in  the  following  words. 

"  The  noblest  benefits  and  delights  of  poetry  can  be  but  rarely 
produced,  because  all  the  requisites  for  producing  them  so  very 
seldom  meet.  A  vivid  mind,  and  happy  imitative  power,  may 
enable  a  poet  to  form  glowing  pictures  of  virtue,  and  almost  pro- 
duce in  himself  a  short-lived  enthusiasm  of  goodness ;  but  although 
even  these  transient  and  f;vctiti(nis  movements  of  mind  may  serve 
fo  produce  grand  and  delightful  effusions  of  poetry,  )  et  when  the 
best  of  these  are  compared  with  the  poetic  productions  of  a 
genuine  lover  of  virtue,  a  discerning  judgment  will  scarcely  fail  to 
mark  the  difference.  A  simplicity  of  conception  and  expression — 
a  conscious,  and  therefore  unaffected  dig-nity — an  instinctive  ad- 
herence to  Sober  reason,  even  amid  the  highest  flights — an  uniform 
justness  and  consistency  of  thought — a  glowing,  yet  temjicrate  ar- 
dour of  feeling — a  peculiar  felicity,  both  in  the  choice  and  combi- 
natiou  of  terms,  by  which  cvtn  the  phiinest  words  acquire  tlie 


548  CONCLUSION. 

truest  character  of  eloquence,  and  which  is  rarely  to  be  found,  ex- 
cept where  a  subject  is  not  only  intimately  known,  but  cordially 
loved;  these,  I  conceive,  are  the  features  peculiar  to  the  real  vo- 
tary of  virtue,  and  which  must,  of  course,  give  to  his  strains  a 
perfection  of  effect  never  to  be  attained  by  the  poet  of  infei'ior 
moral  endowments. 

,  I  believe  it  will  be  readily  granted,  that  all  these  qualities  were 
never  more  perfectly  combined  than  in  the  poetry  oi  Milton;  and 
I  think,  too,  there  will  be  little  doubt,  that  the  next  to  him,  in  every 
one  of  these  instances,  beyond  all  comparison,  is  Coivpcr.  The  ge- 
nius of  the  latter  did  certainly  not  lead  him  to  emulate  the  songs  of 
the  seraphim.  But  though  he  pursues  a  lower  walk  of  poetry  than 
his  great  master,  he  appears  no  less  the  enraptured  votary  of  pure 
unmixed  goodness.  Nay,  pei'haps  he  may,  in  this  one  respect, 
possess  some  peculiar  excellences,  which  may  make  him  seem 
more  the  bard  of  Christianity.  That  divine  religion  infinitely  ex- 
alts, but  it  also  deeply  humbles  the  mind  it  inspires.  It  gives  ma- 
jesty to  the  thoughts,  but  it  impresses  meekness  on  the  manners, 
and  diffuses  tenderness  through  the  feelings.  It  combines  sensi- 
bility with  fortitude— ^the  lowliness  of  the  child  with  the  magna- 
nimity of  the  hero. 

The  grandest  features  of  the  Christian  character  were  nevci' 
moi-e  gloriously  exemplified  than  in  that  spirit  which  animates  the 
whole  of  Milton's  poetry.  His  ov/n  J\I!c/iael  does  not  impress  us 
with  the  idea  of  a  purer  or  more  awful  virtue  than  that  which  we 
feel  in  every  portion  of  his  majestic  verse;  and  he  no  less  happily 
indicates  the  source  from  which  his  excellence  was  derived,  by  the 
bright  beams  which  he  ever  and  anon  reflects  upon  us  from  the  sa- 
cred scriptures.  But  the  milder  graces  of  the  gospel  are  certainly 
less  apparent.  What  we  behold  is  so  awful,  it  might  almost  have 
inspired  a  wish,  that  a  spirit  equally  pure  and  heavenly  might  be 
raised  to  illustrate,  with  like  felicity,  the  more  attractive  and  gentler 
influences  of  our  divine  religion. 

In  Cowper,  above  any  poet  that  ever  lived,  would  such  a  wish 
seem  to  be  fulfilled.  In  his  charming  effusions,  we  have  the  same 
spotless  purity — the  same  elevated  devotion — the  same  vital  exer- 
cise of  every  noble  and  exalted  quality  of  the  mind — the  same  de- 
votedness  to  the  sacred  scriptures,  and  to  the  peculiar  doctrines  of 
the  gospel :  the  difference  is,  that  instead  of  an  almost  repressive 
dignity,  we  have  the  sweetest  familiarity — instead  of  the  majestic 
grandeur  of  the  Old  Testament,  we  have  the  winning  graces  of 
the  New— instead  of  those  thunders  by  which  angels  were  discom-? 
fited,  we  have,  as  it  were,  "  the  still  small  voice"  of  Him  who 
was  meek  and  lowiv  of  heart. 


CONCLUSION.  249 

May  we  not  then  venture  to  asse  rt,  that  from  that  spirit  of  devoted 
piety  which  has  rendered  both  these  great  men  Hable  to  the  charge 
of  riih-^ious  enthusiasm,  but  which,  in  truth,  raised  the  minds  of 
t)oth  to  a  kind  of  happy  residence, 

"  In  regions  mild,  of  cahn,  and  serene  air, 
"  Above  the  smoke  and  stir  of  this  dim  spot 
"  Which  men  call  Earth," 

5  peculiar  character  Jias  been  derived  to  the  poetry  of  them  botjt, 
which  distinguishes  their  compositions  from  those  of  almost  all  U.e 
world  besides  ?  I  have  already  enumerated  some  of  the  superior 
advantages  of  a  truly  virtuous  poet,  and  presumed  to  state,  that 
these  are  realized,  in  an  unexampled  degree,  in  Milton  and  Cow- 
per.  Tiiat  they  both  owed  this  moral  eminence  to  their  vivid 
sense  of  religion^  will,  I  conceive,  need  no  demonstration,  except 
what  will  arise  to  every  reader  of  taste  and  feeling  on  examining 
their  works.  It  will  here,  I  think,  be  seen  at  once,  that  tliat  sub- 
limity of  conception,  that  delicacy  of  virtuous  feeling,  that  majes- 
tic independence  of  mind,  that  quick  relish  for  all  the  beauties  of 
nature,  at  once  so  pure,  and  so  exquisite,  which  we  find  ever  oc- 
curring in  them  both,  could  not  have  existed  in  the  same  unrivalled 
degree,  if  their  devotion  had  been  less  intense,  and,  of  course, 
their  minds  more  dissipated  amongst  low  and  distracting  objects." 

In  printing  this  brief  specimen  from  the  manuscript  of  a  modest 
writer,  who  is  personally  unknown  to  me,  I  hope  I  may  lead  him 
to  make,  for  his  own  honour,  a  more  extensive  use  of  his  pro- 
duction. His  eloquent  remarks  on  the  congeniality  of  mind  be- 
tween Milton  and  Cowper,  may,  possibly,  induce  some  readers  to 
favour  my  intention  of  rendering  Milton  a  contributor  to  the  posthu- 
mous honours  of  Cowper,  by  the  following  proposal. 

My  departed  friend  having  expressed  a  wish  to  me  that  an  edi- 
tion of  Milton  might  be  formed,  in  which  our  respective  writings 
concerning  him  should  appear  united,  I  hope  to  accomplish  that 
affectionate  desire.  If  the  puljlic  favour  my  idea,  the  whole  pro- 
fits of  the  book  will  be  applied  to  the  purpose  of  raising  a  marble 
Monument  in  the  metropolis,  to  Cowper,  by  the  sculptor  whose 
genius  he  particularly  reganled,  my  friend  Mr.  Flaxman.  The 
proposed  edition  is  to  contain  Cowper's  admirable  translations 
from  the  Latin  and  Italian  poetry  of  IMilton,  and  all  that  is  pre- 
served of  that  unfinished  Connnentary,  which  he  intended  to  con- 
tinue and  complete  as  a  series  of  Dissei'tations  on  tlie  Paradise 
Lost. 

VOL.  ir.  K  k 


250  CONCLUSION. 

It  is  proposed  that  CoAvper's  Milton  (for  so  I  wish  the  editiori 
to  be  called)  shall  consist  of  three  quarto  volumes,  decorated  with 
various  engravings,  at  the  price  of  six  guineas ;  and  those  Avho 
intend  to  contribute  in  this  manner  to  a  national  monument,  in 
inemory  of  Cowper,  are  requested  to  deposit  their  subscriptions 
either  with  Mr.  Johnson,  bookseller,  of  St.  Paul's,  or  with  Mr. 
Evans,  bookseller,  of  Pail-Mall. 

As  many  persons  may  be  inclined  to  subscribe  to  Cowper's 
jnonument,  without  subsci-ibing  to  the  intended  Milton,  it  is  pre- 
sumed such  persons  will  be  gratified  in  being  informed,  that  the 
two  booksellers  above-mentioned  will  receive  any  smaller  sum  as 
a  contribution  to  the  monument,  and  either  faithfully  devote  what- 
ever may  be  received  to  that  purpose,  or  return  the  sum  so  ad- 
vanced to  every  subscriber,  if  the  purpose  should  be  relinquished : 
It  may,  however,  be  reasonably  hoped,  that  a  purpose  where  the 
feelings  of  national  esteem  and  love  are  so  perfectly  in  unison  with 
those  of  private  friendship,  will  be  happily  accomplished,  and  that 
many  who  feel  how  justly  tlie  pre-eminent  character  of  Cowper  is 
endeared  to  our  country,  will  delight  in  contributing  to  perpetuate 
his  renown,  by  the  most  honourable  memorial  of  public  aiFectiohi 


FINISo 


BOOKS 

•Printed  by  and  for  T.  &  J.  SWORDS,  and  sold  at  their  Store, 
No.  160  Pearl-Street,  New-York. 

i.   T  ECTURES  on  Diet  and  Regimen,  being  a 

-^  Systematic  Inquiry  into  the  most  rational  Moans  of  preserving 
Health  and  prolonging  Lite;  together  with  Physiological  and  Chemical 
Explanations,  calcula'.ed  chiefly  for  the  Use  of  Families,  in  Order  to 
banish  the  prevailing  Abuses  and  Prejudices  in  Medicine.  By  J.  F.  M. 
Willich,  M.  D. 

2.  The  Domestic  Encyclopaedia,  or  a  Dictionary 

of  Facts  and  useful  Knowledge;  comprehending  a  concise  A^icw  of  the 
latest  Discoveries,  Inventions,  and  Improvements,  chiefly  applicable  to 
rural  and  domestic  Economy :  togecher  with  Descriptions  of  the  most 
interesting  Objects  of  Nature  and  h  rt ;  the  History  of  Men  and  Animals 
in  a  State  of  Health  or  Disease;  and  practical  Hints  res})ectmg  the  Arts 
and  Manufactures,  both  familiar  and  commercial.  Illustrated  with  nu- 
merous Engravings  and  Cuts.  In  five  Vols.  8vo.  By  A.  F.  M.  Willich, 
M.  D.  Author  of  the  Lectures  on  Diet  and  Regimen,  &c.  With  Addi- 
tions, applicable  to  the  present  Situation  of  the  United  States,  ^y  ^avics 
Mease,  M.  D.  and  Fellow  of  the  American  Philosophical  Society. 

3.  Quincy's  Lexicon  Physico-Medicum  improved, 

or  a  Dictionary  of  the  Terms  employed  in  Medicine,  and  in  such  De- 
partments of  Chemistry,  Natural  Philosophy,  Literature,  and  the  Arts, 
as  are  connected  therewith.  Containing  ample  E.xplanations  of  the 
Etymology,  SigniScation,  and  Use  of  those  Terms.  From  the  eleventh 
London  Edition.  With  many  Amendments  and  Additions,  expressive 
of  Discoveries  lately  made  in  Europe  and  America. 

4.  History  of  the  British   Expedition  to  Egypt; 

to  which  is  subjoined,  a  Sketch  of  the  present  State  of  that  Country, 
and  its  Means  of  Defence.  Illustrated  with  Maps,  and  a  Portrait  of 
Sir  Ralph  Abercromby.  By  Robert  Thomas  U'ilson,  Lieutenant-Colonel 
of  Cavalry  in  his  Britannic  Majesty's  Service,  and  Knight  of  the  Im- 
perial Military  Order  of  Maria  Theresa.     In  two  Vols.  8vo. 

5.  An  Historical  Account  of  the  most  celebrated 

Voyages,  Travels,  and  Discoveries,  from  the  Time  of  Columbus  to  the 
present  Period.  By  William  Mavor,  LL.  D.  In  twenty -four  Vols. 
12mo.     Price  30  Dollars. 

'6.  The  Botanic  Garden.    A  Poem,  in  two  Parts. 

Part  I.  containing  the  Economy  of  Vegetation.  Part  II.  the  Loves  of 
the  Plant;;.      With   Philosophical  Notes.     By  Erasmus  Banviii,  M.  D. 

7.  Zoonomia;  or  the  Laws  of  Organic  Life,     In 

three  Parts.  By  Erasmus  Darwin,  M.  D.  F.  R.  S.  Author  of  the  Bo- 
tanic Garden,  Phytologia,  ^c.    Complete  in  two  Vols.  8vo. 

8.  Memoirs  of  the  late  Mrs.  Robinson,  written 

by  herself.     AVith  some  Posthumous  Pieces.     In  two  vols.  13mo. 


(     2     ) 

9.  A  Guide  to  the  Church,  in  several  Discourses. 

To  which  are  added,  two  Postscripts ;  the  first,  to  those  Members  of 
the  Church  who  occasionally  frequent  other  Places  of  Public  Worship; 
the  second,  to  the  Clergy.  Addressed  to  William  Wilberforce,  Esq.  M.P. 
By  the  Rev.  Charles  Baubeny,  LL.  B.  a  Presbyter  of  the  Church  of 
England. 

10.  First  Lines  of  the  Practice  of  Physic  By  Wil- 
liam Cullen,  M.  D.  late  Professor  of  the  Practice  of  Physic  iu  the  Uni- 
versity of  Edinburgh,  &c.  With  Practical  and  Explanatory  Notes,  by 
yohn  Rutheram,  M.  D.     In  two  Vols.  8vo.  ■ 

11.  A  Treatise  of  the  Materia  Medica.     By  IVil- 

liavi  Cullen,  M.  D.  &c.     In  two  Vclumes,  Svo. 

12.  The  Adventures  of  Telemachus,  the  Son  of 

Ulysses.  From  the  French  of  5'a//)^j!ac  De  la  Mcthe-Faielon,  Arch- 
Bishop  of  Cambray.  By  the  late  yobn  Hawkes'Mortb,  LL.  D.  Corrected 
and  revised  by  G.  Gregory,  D.  D.  Joint  Evening  Preacher  at  the  Found- 
ling Hospital,  and  Author  of  Er>says,  Historical  and  Moral,  &c.  With 
a  Life  of  the  Author,  and  a  Complete  Index,  Historical  and  Geogra- 
phical.    In  two  Vols.  8vo. 

13.  The  Works  of  Virgil,  translated  Into  English 

Prose,  as  near  the  Original  as  the  diilercat  Idioms  of  the  Ladn  and 
English  I^anguages  will  allow.  With  the  Latin  Text  and  Order  of 
Construction  en  the  same  Page;  and  Critical,  Historical,  Geogra])hical, 
and  Classical  Notes  in  English,  frcni  the  best  Ccmmentatcrs,  both  An- 
cient and  Modern.  Beside  a  very  great  Number  of  Notes  entirely 
new.  In  two  Vols.  Svo.  First  American  Edition,  carefully  revised 
and  corrected  by  Malcolm  Campbell,  A.  M.  Teacher  of  Languages. 

14.  Cicero's  select  Orations,  translated  into  Eng- 
lish; with  the  original  Latin,  from  the  best  Editions,  in  the  opposite 
Page;  and  Notes,  Historical,  Critical,  and  Explanatory.  Designed  for 
the  Use  of  Schools,  as  well  as  private  Gentlemen.  By  William  Duncan, 
Professor  of  Philosophy  in  the  University  of  Aberdeen.  Carefully  re- 
vised and  corrected  by  Malcolon  Campbell,  A.M.  Teacher  of  Languages. 

15.  Dissertations  on  the  Prophecies,  which  have 

remarkably  been  fulfilled,  and  at  this  Time  are  fulfilling  in  the  World.  By 
Thoonas  Neii-ton,  D.  D.  late  Lord  Bishop  of  Bristol.    In  two  Vols.  8vo. 

16.  Discourses   on   several  Subjects.    By  Samuel 

Seabury,  D.  D.  Bishop  of  Connecticut  and  Rhode-Island.  In  three  Vols. 
8vo. 

17.  The  Posthumous  Works  of  y^;??z  Eliza  Bleecker, 

in  Prose  and  Verse.  To  which  is  added,  a  Collection  of  Essays,  Prose 
and  Poetical.    By  Margarcita  V.  Fcu/geie.t. 

18.  A  Treatise  of  Practical  Surveying;  which  is 

demonstrated  from  its  first  Pr:ncij)les.  Wh.erein  every  Thing  that  is 
useful  and  curious  in  tliat  Art  is  fully  considered  and  explained :  parti- 
cularly three  new  and  very  concise  Methods  of  determining  the  Areas 
of  riglit-lincd  Figures  arithmetically,  or  by  calculation,  as  v.-ell  as  the 
Geometrical  ones^  heretofore  treated  of.  The  whole  illustrated  with 
Copper-plates.  Ev  F.oberi  Gibson,  Teacher  of  Mathematics.  With 
Alterations  and  Anicndnieuts,  adapted  to  the  Use  of  American  Sur? 
veyors. 


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